Find The One Song
by Bella Winter Rose
Summary: Young Roger Davis struggles through abandonment, rebellion and his first love, all while trying to find the one thing that makes him who he is. Soon, he discoveres the music that's inside of him to help him heal.
1. Promises

_Memory: five years old_

_1976_

It was hot. It was too hot for Roger to sleep. He'd kicked the blankets off his legs and now lay awake. His mother had forgotten to draw the shades again, and the streetlamps were pouring light into the tiny bedroom, splashing onto Roger's face. Sirens were heard in the distance—not horribly unusual in New York City, especially in this particular area in the East Village. The rotating fan set up in the corner of the room was only doing so much to cut through the humidity.

In the double bed beside Roger was his older brother Michael, seven years old. The heat didn't bother Michael; nothing bothered Michael. Mama's nickname for him was the Easy Rider. Her nickname for Roger was the Wild Child, probably due to his mop of blond hair that grew so rapidly, Mama would have to cut it every other week to keep him from looking like a girl. Mama herself had honey-colored hair down passed her waist.

Between the wall and the double bed that Roger and Michael shared, a crib was wedged. Behind its wooden bars, sleeping in only a diaper was the baby. Though at two, Eddie was not considered a baby anymore, but to Mama, he was simply, "the Baby."

Roger lay very still, listening to his brothers' breathing. He could not tell time yet, so he had no indication as to how late it was. He could hear voices, voices from other apartments next door, above and below. If he listened very carefully, he could pick out Mama's voice amongst them,

"…told me it was ten last time," she was saying. Her voice was deep for a woman's, slow and sleepy.

"Things change, Honey Bear," a man's voice responded. "It's fifteen."

"Okay, all right. Don't kill my buzz, man."

Roger was suddenly thirsty. He wanted some milk, some cold milk. He crawled over to the edge of the bed before putting his feet to the floor, the carpet rough under his feet. He wore only a pair of plaid pajama pants.

He carefully padded down the hall and towards the living room. He leaned against the doorway and observed his mother, sitting on the floor, amongst a small gathering of people. Roger recognized Minnie and Trudy, Karen and Dana. There were two other men that Roger did not recognize. One had black hair, long and straight and covered with a bandana. The other had a curly blonde afro and a beard. He was the one who spotted Roger.

"That one of your boys, Honey Bear?" he asked. He had a can of beer in one hand. A thick, bitter smell blanketed the room and there was a thin sheen of smoke.

Roger's mother Carrie had her back to the door. She turned her head over her shoulder. She had cinnamon-colored freckles splashed across her cheeks and nose. Her pupils were dilated to the point where only a thin rim of sky blue remained. Her smile faded. "What are you doing up, baby?" she asked him.

"I'm thirsty," he announced.

"Give 'em a beer," snorted the blond man.

Carrie rolled her eyes and stood. She wore patched bell-bottomed jeans, a green peasant blouse and a leather headband across her forehead. "I'll be right back," she said to her guests. She held her hand out to Roger. "Come on, Wild Child."

Roger took his mother's hand and she led him into the kitchen. She scooped him up and sat him on the counter. Without a word, she went into the refrigerator and got out the milk. She poured some into a glass for Roger and handed it to him.

"Mama," he said warily, "why is everyone here?"

"Never mind about that," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Come on, take the glass."

Roger took it but didn't put it to his lips right away. He was watching his mother, how she casually flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted the sleeves of her blouse. Her earrings were silver peace signs suspended from a leather strap.

Trudy, with her long ruby-red hair, sauntered into the kitchen. The fringes on her leather vest had beads at the ends, and they made a pleasant clacking noise as she moved. Her glasses were round, taking up nearly half her face. "Hey, Roger," she greeted. She tousled his hair. "Man, look at all that _hair_. It's so hip." Roger crinkled up his nose. What was everyone's fascination with his hair? Trudy then turned to Carrie and pressed a small plastic baggie into her hand. "Here. You can owe me later."

Carrie stared at it for several seconds before putting it her back pocket. "Thanks, Tru." She glanced at Roger. "Drink up." Roger quickly swallowed his milk.

"Bruno and Wyatt want to know if you're coming tonight," Trudy continued.

"Maybe," Carrie leaned against the refrigerator.

"Come on, Carrie."

"I said maybe. Roger, you done yet?" Roger nodded and handed his mother the glass. Carrie put it in the sink and held out her arms, inviting Roger into them. He wrapped his arms around her neck and rested his chin on her shoulder as she lifted him off the counter to carry him back to bed. The heady scent of patchouli arose from her hair. For the rest of his life, Roger would remember the way his mother held him, her arms curled around his back as he straddled her hip.

"Hey Carrie," one of the men called out, the one with the bandana, "can you carry me to bed, too? Read me a bedtime story?"

Roger felt his mother's arms tighten around him. "Save it, Bruno," she snapped.

"Relax," urged Dana. Roger's turned his head so he could see what was going on. Dana was at Carrie's side. "Here. Take a hit." She leaned over and handed Carrie a joint. Sighing, Carrie accepted it and took a deep drag. She blew the smoke away from Roger, covering his mouth and nose so he wouldn't get a second-hand high.

"Thanks," Carrie muttered. "I'll be right back."

She carried Roger back into the bedroom. Michael and Eddie were still asleep. Michael had knocked some pillows to the floor and he had also kicked the blankets off. He slept with his body curled in a ball. Once Carrie set Roger down on the bed, she bent to collect the pillows, throwing them onto the bed; hitting Roger in the face with one. Roger giggled and threw it back at his mother. Carrie smiled and put a finger to her lips as she placed the pillow behind Michael's head.

"Get under the covers, Wild Child," she said.

Roger scampered back to his side of the bed and Carrie pulled the covers up over him and Michael. She pulled the shades down on the window. She leaned over to kiss Michael on the forehead and then leaned over to kiss Roger. The acrid smell of marijuana was strong on her breath and in her hair.

"Mama," Roger whispered, "will you come back?"

Carrie blinked, "What?"

"Will you come back? In the morning?"

"That's a silly question. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."


	2. Push

And then came a night when Roger was roused from a deep slumber by his mother's cold hands on his bare back. She gently nudged him awake. His eyes fluttered open. It was only then he realized how stifling hot the bedroom was. Mama had unplugged the fan. Roger's hair was plastered against his forehead.

"Mama?" his voice was scratchy from sleep. His mother's face was serene as she brushed his hair from his face.

"Shh," she soothed. Her hair hung over her shoulders and brushed against Roger's knees. "You have to wake up. We're going for a ride."

Roger sat up and looked to his right. Michael was up and out of bed, sitting on the edge, swinging his legs. Mama scooped up Eddie out of the crib and left the room. Roger crawled to the end of the bed and tapped Michael on the shoulder. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," Michael shrugged. His hair was a shade or two darker than Roger's, almost a light brown, but just as long. "She said we're going for a ride."

"I know," Roger replied, "but where?"

"Maybe we're going to Disney World." Michael and Roger had seen advertisements for the new theme park whenever they went to their grandmother's house and watched television.

Mama came back into the room; Eddie was still asleep in her arms, his body malleable as cookie dough. "Guys, put on some shirts, huh? We gotta get going."

"What time is it?" Michael asked, sliding off the bed. He went to the dresser shoved into the corner of the room below the window and pulled out a shirt for himself and then tossed one to Roger.

"Don't worry about that."

"Mama, where's my dog?" Roger asked. He referred to a stuffed dog that he usually slept with. He didn't put on the shirt Michael had handed him. It was too hot.

"I don't know, baby," Mama replied. Her voice was casual, breezy, unhurried.

"I can't leave without my dog."

"We'll look for it later, I promise. Put your shirt on."

"It's too hot," he protested.

Mama hoisted Eddie up, her arms tired of holding him. "The bus is waiting."

"Bus?" Michael inquired. Roger pulled the t-shirt over his head.

The boys soon discovered that the "bus" was a green and white Volkswagen bus. Leaning up against the side was one of the men Roger had seen at the apartment a few nights ago, the one with the long dark hair and wearing a bandana. He was smoking a cigarette that emitted the same odor that always hung around the apartment, that bitter green smell.

It was cooler outside than it was inside the East Village apartment, but it was still hot. It was like trying to breathe with a wet towel over your face. Roger coughed on the humidity. His feet sweated in his hiking boots. He did not have time to put on socks.

"You ready?" the man asked Mama.

"Just about. Mikey, hold onto your brother," she admonished. She shifted Eddie in her arms. He fussed and whined, but did not awaken. His head, covered in curls so blond they were nearly white, lolled against her shoulder. "You two sit in the back."

The man slid open the door of the Volkswagen bus. Michael and Roger stared at it warily and did not move to get in until their mother nudged them from behind. Michael tugged Roger along and helped his little brother into the bus. The door slid closed and Roger pressed his face up against the window, looking up at their building. It had once been a music publishing factory.

Once Mama was settled in the front seat, Eddie in her lap, the long-haired man stomped out his odorous cigarette and placed what was left of it in the front pocked of his shirt. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, which turned over with a cough and a sputter. Roger didn't know why, but he had a horrible, bubbling feeling in his stomach as the bus pulled away from the curb. They drove off into the night. The bus was silent.

"Where are we going?" Michael asked after several minutes. "Mama, where are we going?" His mother remained silent.

Roger tugged on his brother's sleeve. "I want to go back."

"We can't," Michael whispered.

"I…I want my dog."

"I want my baseball bat."

"I want my slippers."

"I want my Yankees hat."

"I want—"

"Hey!" the long haired man snapped, glaring at them in the rearview mirror. "Shut up back there."

Michael leaned forward to see if Mama would defend them, but she didn't say a word. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Roger mimicked his big brother's actions. He was soon asleep.

After several minutes, Roger was being awoken once more, this time by Michael. "Stop," Roger swatted his brother's hand away, but woke up, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey," Michael whispered, "aren't we at Gran's house?"

* * *

Mary Jude Davis had a keen intuition. Inside her brownstone in Hell's Kitchen, she had been struggling to sleep for several hours. She was normally a peaceful sleeper, but only when something was troubling her did she have insomnia. However, on this particular night, she couldn't figure out what it was. She lived alone—her husband Patrick, God rest his soul, had passed on four years ago. Her children were all out on their own. What was there to worry about? 

She was wide awake in her kitchen, having a cup of tea and reading the previous day's newspaper when the frantic knocking came at her door at three in the morning. Throwing her robe over her faded nightgown and smoothing her gray frizzled hair, she peered through the peephole first to see who it was.

"Damn it all to hell," she whispered when she saw her daughter on the doorstep. Mary Jude unbolted the door and swung it open. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and her feet apart. "Hello, Caroline."

"Mom," Carrie said in a low voice. She wore frayed and faded jeans with a tie-dyed t-shirt. "I need a favor." Her youngest son was awake and in her arms. He babbled happily when he saw Mary Jude, holding his arms out.

"Sweet Jesus, Carrie, do you know what time it is?"

Carrie didn't seem to be listening. She was already putting Eddie in Mary Jude's arms, repeating, "I need a favor."

"What kind of favor?" Mary Jude asked as she cradled Eddie. She looked passed Carrie's shoulder and saw her two older grandsons standing on the sidewalk: sweet little Roger, his golden hair to his shoulders; stoic, stone-faced Michael with the intense brown eyes. They looked exhausted. "Carrie…you're not in trouble, are you?"

"I—just. Take them. Please. Mom. For a little bit," Carrie pleaded. She laced her fingers together and tucked them under her chin, a gesture not of a twenty-four-year-old woman, but of a little girl. She pouted. "Mom, I really need you to do this." Roger and Michael were slowly creeping up the steps.

Mary Jude didn't say no. She didn't say yes, either, but it wasn't as if she was just going to let Carrie take her grandsons somewhere else. Who knows where they could end up? She shifted Eddie onto her hip and watched Carrie usher her sons up the stairs. She knelt in front of them and kissed their cheeks, smoothed their hair and promised, over and over, "I'll be right back."

"Mama, I want my dog," Roger protested. "You said I could get it. I want it."

"You'll get your dog," Carrie cupped her son's cheek. "I promise you'll get it."

"When are you coming back?" Michael asked.

"Soon."

"When?"

"I have to go," Carrie insisted. She got up and tried to step away, but Roger lunged for her leg, wrapping his arms around it. "Roger, let go."

"Please don't leave," Roger begged.

"Let _go_, I said."

Roger began to panic, shooting looks to Michael and to his grandmother and back up at his mother. "Please, Mama…"

"Mom," Carrie said to Mary Jude, "help me out here?"

Mary Jude held out her one free hand to Roger. "Come on inside, Roger," she urged. "Gran will get you some chocolate milk."

Roger ignored his grandmother. "Mama, is it because I got out of bed? Was I bad?"

Carrie's hands grasped around Roger's wrists. "Roger, let go now or I'll push you down."

"Carrie!" Mary Jude exclaimed.

Roger held fast, "I'll be better, Mama. I promise, I'll be good. Please don't leave."

In an uncaring and cruel manner, Carrie placed a hand to the boy's chest and shoved him down. Once he'd lost his grip on her, she turned to step down the stairs of the brownstone and to the Volkswagen bus. She climbed into the passenger seat.

Thanks to Mary Jude and Michael's quick reflexes, Roger did not hit the ground hard. Instead, as he toppled, his brother and grandmother had each reached out to try to catch him. Mary Jude caught his arm, while Michael had grabbed the sleeve of Roger's t-shirt. Roger's bottom hit the concrete stoop as he lost his balance, wincing at the impact. A few silent tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched the Volkswagen bus disappear into the night.


	3. Prayer

Mary Jude Davis always wondered where she had gone wrong with Caroline. Her other three children—two older, one younger—had turned out all right. She had raised them in a good, solid Irish Catholic home. She nurtured them, she loved them, she was there for them. Whatever her children wanted, Mary Jude made sure that they had it. Sure, their father was a little rough around the edges, a little harsh and demanding and maybe even a little controlling, but Mary Jude was always there to soften any blow.

Mary Jude clearly recalled Caroline's first act of rebellion. She'd refused to braid her hair in the fashion her father liked to see on young girls. While Patrick Davis ranted and raved and made threats, Caroline, then nine years old, marched into the kitchen, seized a carving knife, and hacked off her honey-colored hair. It was all downhill from there.

Caroline had fallen into the spirit of the sixties at an early age, donning brightly colored tie dye, bell-bottomed jeans, flowing skirts, sandals and beaded jewelry; burning her bras; skipping school to attend protests. More than once she'd stumbled home high on pot or acid as young as thirteen. At fifteen, she attempted to run away to San Francisco but was thwarted by her father. Mary Jude had done her best to protect Caroline from her father's rage, but even she found her daughter's behavior a little extreme.

By the time Caroline announced she was pregnant at the age of seventeen, and refused to name the father, Patrick Davis had had enough. He took it upon himself to bring Caroline to a home for unwed mothers, where she was expected to give birth, leave her baby behind, and then go on with her life as usual. However, in one final act of rebellion, the night before Caroline was to be sent away, she ran off, climbing out her window and down the fire escape. Patrick Davis found only an empty bed when he came for her at five o'clock in the morning. Convinced that his youngest daughter Rosemary, with whom Caroline shared a room, was in on this conspiracy, Patrick proceeded to beat Rosemary with a belt, insisting that she tell him where her sister had gone. Rosemary, however, had no knowledge as to where Caroline was, and she bore the scars from her father's belt for the rest of her life.

Not knowing where Caroline had gone made Mary Jude anxious. Where was she? Was she safe? What would become of her daughter and her unborn grandchild? She had even gone so far as to hire a private detective to find out where she'd gone. When Patrick discovered she had done this, Mary Jude had paid dearly for it in bruises. To Patrick, Caroline was as good as dead. She was never to be mentioned under his roof again.

It would be three years before Caroline returned to the brownstone in Hell's Kitchen. That night she'd run away, she had hitchhiked to a commune in upstate New York, where Michael, and eventually Roger, had been born. She attended the Woodstock Festival with Michael, only two months old, strapped to her back in a papoose.

Caroline rarely if ever disclosed information about her life on the commune. She would forever recall it as one of the happiest times of her life. Then why, some wondered, did she return to the city? She never told.

By the time Mary Jude was reunited with her daughter, Patrick had passed on from a heart attack. It was almost as if Caroline had planned her return around her father's death, even though she hadn't known that he was dead until Mary Jude told her. Her reaction to his death was a shrug as she said, "Karma's a bitch, man."

Caroline, Michael and Roger stayed with Mary Jude for another six months, until, one morning, she was simply gone. She had left behind the boys, and Mary Jude feared that she'd seen the last of her daughter, until she came back the next day, and announced that she was moving out. She'd found a place in the East Village, and she was taking the boys there. At least she'd left an address with Mary Jude this time.

But now, four years later, Mary Jude found herself doubting that Caroline would return this time. She and the boys waited…and waited…and waited for a phone call or a postcard, or something to indicate where she was or if (and when) she was coming back.

At first, the boys—particularly Michael and Roger—seemed unaffected by their mother's sudden departure. They carried on with life, occasionally running to the windows to see if their mother was coming to retrieve them. After a few weeks, it became apparent that she was in no hurry to return.

Michael, as the oldest, considered himself too old to cry. He felt some sort of duty in keeping a stiff upper lip. He sat quietly and still when Mary Jude cut his hair; he ate everything on his plate at mealtimes; he minded his manners. He let Roger climb into bed with him. Mary Jude had put them in the twin beds that had belonged to Carrie and her sister Rosemary, but Roger just couldn't sleep without Michael beside him, hearing his even breathing.

Roger was unlike his brother. Mary Jude could definitely see he was suffering the worst. He ached for Carrie. He was young enough to cry, but too old to be distracted by something else to ease the pain, like Eddie. When Eddie would cry out for his mother, Mary Jude was there with some diversion—old toys that she'd kept from the childhood of her sons.

Roger mainly spent his days sitting on the front stoop of the brownstone, his knees tucked to his chest, watching Michael play basketball or baseball in the street with some of the other kids from the block. Whenever Mary Jude would prod him to do something productive, he flatly refused.

The real trouble with Roger began early. He and Michael were enrolled at Immaculate Soul, a Catholic school, that September, and within the first two weeks, Roger was in the Mother Superior's office. On the first day of school, a fellow classmate had made fun of Roger's hair, and Roger responded by shoving the boy to the floor. The boy subsequently whacked the back of his head on a nearby desk. From then on, whenever Roger had a confrontation with another student, his first defense was to push his offender as hard as he could. Mary Jude was called in by the Mother Superior to discuss Roger's "behavior issues."

"Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Davis."

"It was no trouble, Mother Superior," Mary Jude said politely. She was wearing her best church dress, and her one good pair of shoes.

"I was hoping to meet and speak with Roger's mother," Mother Superior said, sitting behind her massive desk.

Mary Jude sat a little straighter in the hard wooden chair across from the desk. "My daughter is out of town," she replied simply. "I'm responsible for my grandsons for the time being."

"Ah. I see. Well, Mrs. Davis, let me get to the point of our meeting. Your grandson, Roger, is a troublemaker."

"Troublemaker?" Mary Jude repeated with a frown.

"He has become a bully."

"That can't be my Roger. My Roger is a sweet child."

"Well," Mother Superior scoffed, "tell that to Mrs. Doyle and her son. In the first week of school, Roger pushed James Doyle into a desk. The boy had a concussion."

Mary Jude was silent. "Why would Roger do that?"

"Roger claims that James teased him. But here at Immaculate Soul, we use our words to solve our problems. We use words and we use prayer. Never violence."

"Roger was being teased? Why didn't his teacher stop this?"

"Sister Catherine claims she never heard the confrontation."

Mary Jude shook her head, "I just can't believe Roger would act out like that."

Mother Superior leaned in, "Where did you say your daughter was, Mrs. Davis?"

"She's…out of town."

"And the boys' father? Roger has two brothers, correct?"

"Yes. Edward is two. Michael is in second grade with Sister Mary Crispin, I believe. But…as for the father…Caroline never named them."

"'Them'? There are different fathers?"

"I believe so," Mary Jude sighed. "I'm afraid that Caroline had a fall from grace, Mother. She led a very…shall we say, free spirited life. Roger and Michael were born on a commune."

"Were they baptized?"

"No, Mother. Caroline…denounced her faith."

Mother Superior shook her head piteously, "No wonder why the children are so wild."

"Children? Is Michael in trouble, too?"

"Oh, no, no. Just Roger. But, it is never too late to save a soul, Mrs. Davis."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. What do you recommend for Roger, then, Mother?"

"The only recommendation is God," Mother Superior insisted. "You are responsible for that boy's soul. Get the boy baptized; take him to church. Teach him the ways of Christ. Maybe, in time, he will be filled with the light of God. It is the only way to really save your grandson."

Mary Jude blinked a few times and was silent. Finally she stood and said, "Thank you, Mother. I'll keep that in mind."

"Go with God, Mrs. Davis."

* * *

A/N: I know this chapter has very little to do with Roger, but I thought it would be essential to the character to have a little background on his mother and grandmother. Thanks for reading and, hopefully, reviewing!

also, to Renthead07 - I don't know where you heard that information, but I have no plans on writing a sequel to _Burn This City_.


	4. Punishment

_Memory: ten years old_

_1981_

In the twenty-two years that Sister Agnes had been the secretary in the office of the Immaculate Soul School, she'd never seen a student get sent to the Mother Superior's office more times than Roger Davis. She peered over the rims over her glasses at the repeat offender, who was slumped in a chair in his green and blue uniform, arms crossed over his chest, awaiting his punishment.

Sister Agnes pitied the poor boy. She's heard stories—everyone had heard stories—about his hippie mother and his wild upbringing in the East Village—such disgrace! It had given Roger and his brothers quite a reputation when they started here five years ago. But, Sister Agnes thought happily, as she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter, that's what she and her other sisters were here for, to save the poor souls of little lost lambs.

Mother Superior opened the door of her office and stepped out, the material of her habit swishing about her ankles. She wore a wooden cross around her neck and rosary beads hung from an unseen pocket.

"Roger Davis," Mother Superior said his name with venom.

Roger stood, straightened his white Oxford shirt and navy blue uniform blazer and ran his fingers through his cropped hair. If it was one thing that Gran had insisted upon (besides a Catholic education), it was that he and his brothers keep their hair short. Once it became clear that Carrie was not coming back, Mary Jude had shorn her grandsons like sheep. Roger remembered crying when his grandmother cut his hair. That was the last time he'd cried.

He followed Mother Superior into her office and sat in the hard wooden chair across from her gigantic lacquered desk. A crucifix was mounted on the wall to Roger's right. It was a rather graphic depiction: the flecks of blood on Jesus' forehead were enough to make Roger's skin crawl.

"Well, Roger, what have you done this time?" Mother Superior asked. She had a rather large nose, and a pointed chin. If she was green, she'd bear a striking resemblance to the Wicked Witch of the West.

Roger remained silent. He didn't have to tell her. She knew already.

"Sister Joan says during physical education, you grabbed Joseph Gallone by the hair and shoved him into a wall."

_Joseph Gallone deserved it,_ Roger smirked to himself. _Joseph Gallone is a bastard._

"Wipe that grin off your face," Mother Superior snapped.

He hadn't realized he really was smirking. He bit his lower lip.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

He just shifted in the hard chair and remained silent. It didn't matter if he said anything. It didn't matter if he told Mother Superior that the reason he shoved Joseph Gallone was because he'd skipped around Roger in the gymnasium, calling him a flower child. He knew he'd be punished anyway.

"This is a serious offense," Mother Superior lectured. She reached over and opened a desk drawer. Roger tensed. He knew what she was looking for. "Shoving another student. Sister Joan said she had to send Joseph to the nurse." She pulled out the yardstick.

_Great, here it comes,_ Roger thought to himself. He readied himself as he clenched his hands into fists and presented them to Mother Superior. Often he would fantasize about thrusting one of those fists into her face.

"Six Our Fathers," Mother Superior instructed as she stood before him.

"'Our Father, who art in Heaven'…" Roger began to recite. He barely winced as she landed the first blow across his knuckles.

* * *

Roger trudged home at the end of the day, his backpack over one shoulder and his uniform blazer tied haphazardly around his narrow hips. His knuckles were swollen; he tried to ignore the throbbing pain. As he approached his grandmother's brownstone, he saw Eddie sitting on the front steps, sucking on a Popsicle. Last year he'd started wearing glasses. Combined with his curly white-blond hair and perpetually pink cheeks, he gave the impression of a near-sighed cherub. Since he was only in first grade, he got out of class earlier than Roger and Michael did, and was already in his after-school clothes.

"Gran's mad," Eddie announced as soon as Roger was within earshot. "She said Sister Joan called."

"Great," Roger frowned.

"What'd you do now?"

"Nothing," Roger trudged up the steps, dragging his backpack behind him.

"What happened to your hands?"

"None of your business."

"Gran's gonna get madder when she sees your jacket like that," Eddie grabbed at the back of Roger's blazer. Roger snatched it away.

"Get your disgusting hands off," Roger snapped.

"ROGER!" Gran's voice came from the kitchen window. "Inside, _now_."

Roger sighed. With one last glare at his little brother, he went into the kitchen. Gran was standing at the counter, shelling peas. Her feet were enveloped in her tired old house shoes and her gray hair was knotted at the back of her head. She didn't even turn when Roger entered.

"You want to tell me about school today?" she asked, her voice cold.

"No," he responded. He sat at the kitchen table and loosened his blue and green striped tie. The Chucks on his feet were orange.

Gran slammed a fist on the kitchen counter. "Damn it, Roger. I don't know what to do with you."

"Can I have a Popsicle?"

"No. Only good boys get Popsicles after school," Gran swept up a piece of her hair that had escaped her bun, tucking it behind her ear. She sighed and went back to shelling peas. "Sister Joan called about you pushing that boy into a wall. This can't keep happening, Roger. It's _got_ to stop."

"I want the other kids to stop."

"To stop what?"

"Making fun of me. That's what Joseph Gallone did to me."

"Then you act like an adult and you use your words," Gran advised, "or you tell Sister Joan or whoever, and they'll help you solve the problem."

"That won't work. That won't stop them."

Gran sighed, "Jesus, Roger—becoming a bully won't stop them either."

"I'm not a bully!" Roger exclaimed, pushing his chair away from the table, standing in defiance, his feet apart.

"You're acting like one!" snapped Gran. She whirled on him, dropping the peas she was shelling. "I know your mother never would have wanted you to be a bully."

Roger's mouth acted independently from his brain. "Maybe if you weren't such a crappy mom, my mom wouldn't have run away!"

His grandmother took two steps towards him and slapped him sharply across the face. Roger was shocked. He might have been able to hold back his tears, but nothing could cover up the hurt look in his eyes. He turned on his heels and peeled out of the brownstone, slamming the front door behind him.

In the wake of Roger's departure, stunned by her own actions, Mary Jude crumpled to the floor, and cried.


	5. Piano

_Memory: thirteen years old_

_1984_

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…_

Roger frantically skidded down the empty hallways of Immaculate Soul, his tie beating against his chest like an irregular heartbeat. His shirt was un-tucked and the lining of his blazer was torn. The laces on his dirty orange Chuck Taylor sneakers had loosened, and they were now flapping against his ankles.

He was currently trying to escape the wrath of two people: one was Sister Anne Robert, the schoolyard monitor; the other was Dylan Kelleher.

Dylan and Roger had gotten into a fight in the cafeteria earlier that day—a simple altercation that occurred when Dylan tripped over Roger's backpack. The quarrel had escalated to the point where it took both Sister Joan, the phys ed. teacher, and Sister Mary Crispin, the heftiest of the nuns, to break them apart, and were sent to the Mother Superior's office, where she was forced to break out the yardstick on them. Once the boys were excused from their punishment and escorted back to class by Sister Joan, Dylan swore revenge.

Roger managed to avoid Dylan for the majority of the day, but during the midday break, Dylan came after him, backed up by three of his cronies. They cheered Dylan on as he shoved Roger into the chain link fence that surrounded Immaculate Soul's schoolyard and punched him in the stomach. Roger retaliated by delivering a swift kick to Dylan's groin and taking off.

He didn't want anyone thinking he was a chicken, but he knew Dylan could kick his ass. He had at least fifty pounds and six inches on Roger. And if Sister Anne Robert caught him, he'd be in deeper trouble than he already was.

As he jogged down the hallways, he kept his eyes peeled for dark, empty rooms. Finally, toward the end of the east wing, he hit the mother load—the music room.

Using a bobby pin that he'd swiped from his grandmother's dressing table, he jimmied open the locked door and eased himself inside. He'd never really been in the music room before. He closed the door behind him and kept the lights off. The room had high, large windows that provided enough sunlight so that Roger could move easily throughout the large auditorium-like setting, complete with risers and music stands, and cabinets in the back where students could keep their instruments during the day. He wandered around, running his hand over the sleek, brass cymbals. He tapped his fingertips against the taut skin of a snare drum. He wandered over to one of the pianos—Immaculate Soul had two upright pianos. One was shoved up against the wall, the cover locked over its keys. The other stood in the front of the room, uncovered, beckoning Roger towards it. He'd never sat at a piano before, but he'd always wondered what it would feel like. He took his chance. He sat on the bench and ran his fingers over the smooth keys, letting his pinkie tap one of them. _Ping!_ Roger smiled at the sound. He started at one end of the keys, and tapped all 88 keys, going lower and lower.

Pursing his lips, he tapped a few random keys, trying to see if he could pick out a recognizable tune. He started out simple: "Jingle Bells". His brother Eddie sang it incessantly during Christmastime.

After fooling around for several minutes, tapping on the keys, he managed to produce a decent rendition—simply from humming the notes out loud and matching them on the piano. Pleased with himself, he decided to try the "dashing through the snow" verse. Halfway through, he was interrupted by a voice: "A little early for Christmas songs, isn't it? It's only April."

Startled, Roger's hands fumbled, producing a jumble of notes. He stood, knocking over the piano bench. It teetered to the floor with a crash. He saw one of the nuns standing by the door. He was caught; there was no way out. His heart pointed. He'd be expelled from Immaculate Soul for sure now.

"I'm sorry," he uttered. "I…I just…I wanted…Dylan Kelleher…he just…" For some reason, Roger's mouth and brain were not cooperating.

The nun smiled softly, "What's your name?"

He hesitated, in case Sister Anne Robert had given his name to the other nuns. He was wanted, after all. But the look on the nun's young face was full of trust and kindness. "Roger," he said. "Roger Davis."

The nun nodded and came around to the piano. She picked up the overturned piano bench. "I'm Sister Cecilia," she explained. "I'm the musical director. I don't think you're in any of my music classes, are you?"

Roger shook his head. Sister Cecilia had blue-green eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her eyebrows were very light. She wore a delicate gold cross on a slender chain around her neck.

"Do you play piano, Roger?" He shook his head again. "Cat got your tongue?" Sister Cecilia smiled. She sat on the piano bench and scooted over so there was enough room for two. When Roger hesitated, she leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry. I'm not going to turn you in."

So there _was_ a price on his head. _Thanks, Sister Anne Robert_. Roger sighed and sat on the bench. "You're young for a nun," he blurted.

Sister Cecilia giggled. Roger had never heard a nun giggle before. "Well, I guess I am. I only started here about two years ago," she revealed. "So…you don't play an instrument?"

"No. Never have."

"Really?"

"I just…sat down and started fooling around on the keys," he admitted.

"Can you read music?"

"I don't think so."

Sister Cecilia furrowed her brow. "Interesting. You…played that by ear?" Roger nodded. "That's amazing. I know that some people can produce music with no prior knowledge or instruction…it's called absolute pitch." She paused. "Can you play it again?"

"'Jingle Bells'?"

"Yes, if you please."

Roger played his rendition of "Jingle Bells", but stopped after "dashing through the snow". He looked at Sister Cecilia. "That's as far as I got."

The nun was quiet. "Your pacing is a little slow," she mused, "and a few notes are off. But otherwise, you're right on."

"Really?"

"You have an incredible ear. The fact that you can retain notes like that…" She shook her head in awe, and then looked at the clock on the wall. "I don't have a class for another hour. Would you care for a quick little music lesson?"

"It's better than going back outside."

Sister Cecilia laughed. "Okay, then. Let's get started."

* * *

"Mrs. Davis? This is Sister Cecilia from Immaculate Soul." 

"What did Roger do this time?"

The nun paused. "How did you know I was calling about Roger?"

"If someone from Immaculate Soul calls, ninety-nine percent of the time, it's about Roger," Mary Jude sighed. She tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder, leaving her hands free to de-bone a chicken. "What'd he do now?"

"Well, Mrs. Davis, I'm Immaculate Soul's new musical director, and I found Roger in my music room today—"

"Jesus, did he break something?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. As a matter of fact, it was quite remarkable."

"What was?"

"He was sitting at my piano and he managed to play a song that he'd learned by ear."

Mary Jude was silent on her end for a few seconds. "Roger doesn't play piano," she said finally. "None of my grandchildren do."

"It's really incredible," Sister Cecilia gushed. "I've never experienced anything like it."

"How is this possible?"

"Roger has what's known as absolute pitch, or perfect pitch," Sister Cecilia explained. "It means that he's able to reproduce music without external reference. He also has relative pitch, meaning he can identify the distance of pitches from certain tones. I sat with Roger for an hour, running ear training exercises on him. He's a natural musician, Mrs. Davis. Your grandson has a tremendous gift."

Mary Jude's breath caught in her throat as tears filled her eyes, listening to Sister Cecilia go on about Roger.

"Mrs. Davis?"

"…Yes, I'm here. I'm just…so happy to hear that."

"I'd like to take Roger on as his tutor," Sister Cecilia continued, "to help him nurture this talent."

"Oh…we can't afford that."

"I'm not asking for payment."

"Oh…"

"Roger has so much potential, Mrs. Davis. You should be very proud of him."

"I am. Thank you, Sister."

Mary Jude flicked a few tears out of her eyes as she hung up the phone. Roger came into the kitchen then, two hours late, his uniform disheveled and his hair mussed up. Two of Dylan Kelleher's cohorts had ambushed him on his way home from school. He'd managed to hold his own, but they'd ripped his tie and busted his lip. Blood spotted his white Oxford shirt. When he saw his grandmother wiping her eyes, he feared that Sister Anne Robert had incriminated him already.

"Gran?"

Mary Jude sniffled, "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

Instead of answering, Mary Jude approached her grandson and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her chest. Roger, surprised and confused at this gesture of affection, hugged his grandmother back. He didn't know why, but he was sure Sister Cecilia had something to do with this.

* * *

A/N – Sister Cecilia is named after the patron saint of musicians. Also, in case anyone was wondering: no, I'm not Catholic. I'm actually Jewish. I just did a lot of research and asked a lot of questions. I decided to make Roger a Catholic schoolboy for three reasons: _The Dangerous Lives of Alter Boys_, _The Basketball Diaries_, and _Donnie Darko_. Mmmm, there's something deliciously naughty about a Catholic schoolboy. Watch any of those movies and you'll see why. 


	6. Pride

Roger grew to like Sister Cecilia. She made going to Immaculate Soul bearable. He rarely saw her throughout the day—she mainly stayed in the east wing. He only saw her after school, when he stayed in the music room for as long as two hours.

For a few weeks, he and Sister Cecilia worked on piano exercises. She taught him how to read music, how to place his hands on the keys properly and how to use the pedals at his feet. She chose contemporary pieces for him to play—John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Elton John, Fleetwood Mac and Simon & Garfunkel. Occasionally, she'd have him play something classical, but Roger, of course, always preferred Clapton over Chopin.

He thought Sister Cecilia was pretty hip herself, something he'd never considered: a _nun_ being _cool_? It seemed impossible. But Sister Cecilia was living proof. When she told him that her favorite album was _Who's Next_ by the Who, she followed that statement by asking Roger if he was named after Roger Daltrey. He was so shocked that she'd gotten the reference he nearly hugged her. Carrie had, in fact, been a big fan of the Who. She'd seen them play at Woodstock.

The music lessons with Sister Cecilia always went quickly for Roger. He knew he always loved music, but it wasn't until he'd met her that he realized not only did he love it; it was part of his heart and soul. He knew that it was destined to be a part of his life.

After an after school lesson with Sister Cecilia one afternoon, Roger returned home to find his grandmother sitting at the kitchen table, thumbing through a magazine. There was a notepad and a pen beside her.

"Hi Gran," he greeted her. He snapped his gum.

"Roger, spit that out. You know how I hate gum chewing."

"Sorry." He spit the gum into his hand and tossed it in the trash. "Where are Eddie and Mikey?"

"Eddie is at Danny Sheehan's. Michael is at basketball practice." Michael, at fifteen, now attended Immaculate Soul's senior high school, and was one of the stars of their basketball team. He already had trophies.

Roger opened the refrigerator, looking for something to nibble on. His stomach felt hallow. He'd skipped lunch and midday break in favor of going to the music room, which Sister Cecilia left unlocked just for him.

"Don't eat anything yet," Mary Jude admonished. She closed the refrigerator door so fast that he had to jump out of the way to avoid being decapitated.

"Aw, Gran…"

"I have something to show you."

"What?" He loosened his tie.

"It's a surprise," she replied. "A gift. Follow me." She exited the kitchen and climbed the staircase. Roger followed.

The brownstone had three bedrooms—Roger and Eddie shared one, while Michael, being the oldest, had the privilege of being alone. Roger still vividly recalled the pain of separation that he felt when he and Michael no longer shared a bed or even a room.

Mary Jude led him into the room he shared with Eddie. Though this room had once belonged to her two daughters, it was now masculine. The room had been repainted, from purple to white. Both of the twin beds were now covered up in blue flannel comforters. The delicate porcelain lamps had been replaced. The shelves now held tucks instead of dolls, baseball gloves instead of snow globes. The daintiness was gone. Mary Jude took Roger's hand and took him into the room and stood him in front of the bed. On top of his bed, resting on his pillow was an acoustic guitar.

"It belonged to your mother," Mary Jude explained. Roger was dumbstruck. He sat on his bed, running his fingers over the smooth wood of the sound box as he listened to his grandmother speak: "She left it behind the night she ran away, when she was pregnant with Michael. I kept it, just in case. I kept it in storage. Cleaned it, took care of it. I knew that I would have use for it someday…"

Roger gently picked up the guitar by the next and took it into his lap.

"She bought this guitar from a sidewalk sale. Her father wouldn't pay for music lessons," Mary Jude explained. "He didn't want her to play guitar. She taught herself." She ran her fingers through Roger's hair. "I'm sure she would have wanted you to have this. She would be so proud of you. More importantly, you should be proud of yourself. You've really made an impressive turnaround this past month."

Roger ran his fingers over the steely strings of the guitar. The wood of the neck was as silky as flower petals. His throat closed up with the threat of tears. "Thanks Gran," he said in a strangled whisper.

Mary Jude kissed him on the forehead ad left him alone with his new toy.

By the time Michael returned from basketball practice two hours later, Roger had taught himself two chords. When Mary Jude called her grandsons to dinner at seven, Roger had one more chord down.

This was the start of something wonderful.

* * *

Two weeks later, on a Monday, Roger brought the guitar to Immaculate Soul. He arrived somewhat early, and hid it in the music room, in one of the cabinets. He pulled a black sheet off a drum set ad used it to cover the guitar. He hoped Sister Cecilia wouldn't find it. He wanted to surprise her. 

He fidgeted more than usual in his classes. So much more, as a matter of fact, that Sister Ruth, who taught science, broke out the yardstick on him. Roger clenched his jaw and said the one Our Father through gritted teeth.

By the time lunch and middy break rolled around, Roger's knuckles were still sore. But he sucked it up. He raced to the music room, where Sister Cecilia was waiting for him. She was sitting at the piano, playing some classical tune that Roger didn't know. He didn't say anything until she'd finished the piece. He clapped for her, and she looked up in surprise, then smiled.

"Good afternoon," she greeted him.

"What were you playing?" he asked her.

"It's called _The Maiden's Wish_. It's by Rachmaninoff."

"It's so fast. That was pretty cool."

She chuckled, "Well, thanks. How was your weekend?"

"It was okay. Sister Ruth whacked me today. But I'm okay now."

"That's good."

"I have a surprise for you."

"Really?" Sister Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "For me?"

"Yup." Roger climbed the risers of the music room to the cabinets in the back. He opened up the door behind which he'd hidden the guitar, and brushed off the black cloth. He grasped the guitar by the neck and carried it down, presenting it to Sister Cecilia. "Look what my grandma gave me. It belonged to my mom."

"Oh, Roger…it's beautiful."

"Thanks."

"I used to play guitar. Way back when. In the stone age."

"You're not that old," Roger rolled his eyes.

"May I?" she held her arms out. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

Roger handed the guitar to her. She took it into her lap as if she would a crying child needing to be soothed. She stroked the wood of the sound box. She strummed a few chords.

"My calluses have worn off," she said sheepishly. "I'm really rusty."

"Can I show you something?" Roger asked.

"What?"

"What I've been working on. I spend a long time on it."

"You can play already?" she asked, her eyes going wide.

"Well, kind of. I taught myself a few things…and I worked on this one song all weekend. I listened to the record over ad over again until I got it right."

"Did you really?"

"Yeah."

"Well then—be my guest," she handed the guitar back to Roger and awaited patiently.

Roger sat across from her, positioned the guitar in his lap and softly began to play the opening chords of the song he'd worked on all weekend. He started to sing, but his voice got caught in his throat. He just played the opening chord over again and began to sing in a voice so softly that Sister Cecilia could barely hear it over the guitar.

"_Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise…_"

Sister Cecilia was absolutely silent as Roger played and sang. By the second verse, his voice grew stronger and more confident. When he was finished, he looked up at her expectantly. She wiped a single tear from the corner of her eye before she clapped for his performance.

"Are you okay, Sister?" Roger asked her.

She nodded, "Yes. I'll be fine. That was amazing. You learned that over a single weekend?"

"More or less."

"That's incredible."

Roger blushed. "Thanks."

She smiled. "I'm really very proud of you, Roger."

Roger returned her smile. "I am, too."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the delay of this chapter, but I've been super-duper busy! But the rest of the fic is mapped out and will hopefully be finished before the end of this month. Enjoy! 


	7. Popular

_Memory: sixteen years old _

_1987_

Though Roger now attended Immaculate Soul Senior High School, he still went dutifully every afternoon back to Sister Cecilia's music room with his guitar in hand.

The senior high school was different. Not every parent wished to continue their child's education at Immaculate Soul, and therefore had the option of enrolling them in a public high school. Therefore, the population of the senior high school dropped to less than half of what it was. The student-teacher ratio was about fifteen to one. Mary Jude bowed out of this option, and chose to keep her grandsons in Immaculate Soul. It was harder for Roger to hide, but it was somewhat easier to make friends. He wasn't exactly popular, but everyone seemed to know him, and he seemed to suddenly know everyone else. It was weird, almost, having people say hello to him in the hallways.

He didn't tell Sister Cecilia much about school. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about when he entered through the doorway of her music room. All he was interested in was playing music.

On the last week of school, Roger headed over to the music room at Immaculate Soul and found it nearly bare. He furrowed his brow. "Sister Cecilia?" he called.

The nun came out from her office, off to the side in a hidden alcove of the music room. "Oh, Roger. You're here," she said cheerfully.

He looked around the room. The chairs and music stands were still set up, but all of the posters and charts that Sister Cecilia had hung up around the room were taken down. The room looked bland.

"What's going on?" he asked her.

"What are you talking about?" she replied with a small smile. "Nothing's going on."

"All your pictures and stuff," Roger remarked. He set down the guitar, shrugged off his Immaculate Soul blazer and draped it over a nearby chair. "Why did you take them down?"

Sister Cecilia sighed and went over to him, "Roger, we need to have a little talk."

"What?" Roger raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

Sister Cecilia played with the little cross on its chain around her neck. "I'm….I won't be returning to Immaculate Soul next semester."

"What? Why?" Roger felt as if he'd been stabbed. His lunges and chest were filling up with blood. He didn't want to open his mouth; he feared the blood would come pouring out.

"I'm going to Guatemala," she said, looking down at her lap. "I…they need volunteers down there and I signed up. It's where I must go. God is taking my hand and leading me there."

"H-how…how could you?" he said, barely above a whisper. "Wh-why…"

"I'm sorry, Roger. But it's what I have to do."

Roger bit the inside of his cheek. He was _not_ going to cry. He went to one of the lower windows of the music room and rested his forehead against the cool glass.

"You have to continue your music," Sister Cecilia urged. "God gave you a beautiful, wonderful gift." She went to stand beside him at the window. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I want you to know Roger; you are one of the most amazing students I have ever had. And I will never forget you."

His cheek bled he was biting down so hard on it. He sniffled back a sob and pulled away from her. He grabbed his blazer and the guitar. Sister Cecilia watched wordlessly. As he went to the door, she followed him. He put his hand on the doorknob; she put his hand on his shoulder again. He looked at her without words, just a cold stare. He left the music room.

That was the last time he ever saw Sister Cecilia.

* * *

Mary Jude knew when she took in Carrie's boys that she was going to be in for some trouble down the road. As soon as she laid eyes on her grandsons, she could tell their good looks would be both a benefit and a vice in the long run. Carrie herself was beautiful, so the boys were guaranteed to have at least half of her genes; and Mary Jude figured her daughter would never lie with a man who wasn't attractive—and lo and behold, three handsome boys came forth. 

Michael, as he grew older, bore a striking resemblance to a certain teen heartthrob movie star that all of the neighborhood girls swooned for, the type of boy whose picture they would cut out from magazines to hang in their locker or bedroom wall. Michael's hair turned from light blond to sandy light brown, and his blue eyes took on a greenish hue. He was tall, but not gangly, making him a graceful participant on the basketball court.

Over the years, Eddie's looks remained consistent—baby blue eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, and white blond hair that grew in ringlets. His cheeks were perpetually rosy, as if he was always blushing. His build was slight but slender.

But regardless of how good looking the youngest and oldest Davis boys were, it was Roger who was considered the most attractive, the ones that made the girls giggle and twirl their hair if he said so much as a hello to them. His own blond hair was shot through with some brown, and his hazel-green eyes were deep, intense, and sincere and were framed with lashes so long and dark one would think he applied mascara to them every morning. When he smiled (which, admittedly, wasn't often), his whole face lit up. Even the older women of the neighborhood would confide in Mary Jude about Roger.

"Aye, that grandson Roger of yours," twittered the Irish brogue of Tieve O'Hartigan, one of Mary Jude's closest friends. The two women had cleaned houses together as teenagers and young women in the more prominent areas of New York City, particularly on the Upper East and West Sides. "Jesus, he makes me heart jump, he does."

"Only a teenager on the edge of sixteen," Mary Jude nodded sagely, "and he's already got the girls hot for him. I knew he'd be handsome, but I never expected him to be beautiful."

"Ah, but what a blessing to have a beautiful grandson!"

"A blessing or a curse?"

"Bite your tongue, Mary Jude Davis!" gasped Tieve.

The two women peered out the kitchen window at Roger, who was sitting on the stoop, playing Carrie's guitar. His eyes were half-closed has he concentrated on the notes he was producing. "Beautiful boys," Mary Jude said, "cause nothing but trouble. Look, Tieve, how the girls stop and stare at him. Even the Latin and Oriental girls! I swear, some of them walk past here at least once a day! They all want the same thing."

"Aye, and if I were t'irty or forty years younger, I'd want it me-self."

"Tieve O'Hartigan!"

Tieve just laughed. "You've got nothin' t'worry about, Mary Jude. That Roger is shy as a fly—he won't be bringing you much heartache."

* * *

Roger was trying to pick out a tune he'd heard on the radio earlier that morning on his guitar. He ignored everything around him—the honking of horns, the calling of parents to children, sounds of kids playing in the street. It was late June and school was out for the summer. As he played, he thought about Sister Cecilia, who'd sent him a postcard from Guatemala. He ripped it in half when he received it, but later he went back to get the torn pieces from the garbage, taped them together, and hid it underneath his mattress. She was the only person who really ever understood him, and now she was gone. 

Coming up the block, his hands in his pockets, was Michael. He'd just graduated Immaculate Heart Senior High School earlier that month, and had won himself a scholarship to Georgetown University. He planned to major in English; he'd decided that he wanted to become a teacher. He came up the stairs of the brownstone and ruffled Roger's hair. "Hey, Wild Child."

"Hey, Easy Rider," Roger replied. It was their own inside joke, calling each other by the nicknames their mother gave them to long ago. "Where've you been?"

"Breaking up with Grace," Michael replied, referring to his girlfriend for the passed three years.

"Breaking up with her? Why?" Roger looked up from his guitar.

Michael shrugged, "Because I'm going to Georgetown and she's going to Penn State. It's not going to work, you know? Too bad, huh?"

"Yeah, too bad." Roger went back to his guitar. Michael tugged the guitar out of his hands. "Hey!"

"Guess what else?" Michael said with a smile. "There's a new girl who moved in up by Grace's. A Jewish family, but she's pretty cute. Maybe you should go say hello."

"Maybe." He took back his guitar.

"Hey, Roger," Michael nudged his brother. "You know, a guitar has a hole—but it can only do so much, you know?"

"Mikey! Come on, man!" Roger groaned.

"Look, I'm just trynna help out my baby brother," Michael grabbed Roger into a headlock.

"Ugh! Eddie's the baby, not me!" Roger struggled and released himself from his big brother's grip.

"I know, I know. I'm just gonna miss you."

"You're not leaving so soon."

"Nine weeks," Michael pointed out. "That's not a whole lot of time. We should go out, go to a few parties. Have fun together."

"Alright, fine, fine," Roger muttered. "Whatever. But no more sex jokes about my guitar."

Michael just laughed and went inside. "I'm not promising anything," he said over his shoulder.


	8. Party

A few nights later, Mary Jude permitted Roger to attend a party with Michael, held by a fellow member of Michael's basketball team. She trusted that the brothers would look after each other.

The party was located on the Upper West Side. Roger and Michael took the subway and walked six extra blocks to the building of Kevin Burgess. Kevin Burgess came from money—his parents paid his Immaculate Soul tuition without batting an eyelash. He threw parties that kids talked about until well into the following week.

"Hopefully tonight will be your lucky night," Michael declared. "We'll find someone to keep your mind off of your singing nun."

Roger felt his ears burn, "What?"

"Come on. You've been moping ever since Sister Cecilia left you high and dry. What, were you in love with her or something?"

Of course his brothers and his grandmother knew about Sister Cecilia, but this was the first time anyone had ever brought up the fact that Roger might have a crush on her—which he didn't. "No!" Roger replied defensively. "That's sick!"

"Well, you've been moping around since she left you. It's like you two broke up or something."

Roger just rolled his eyes as he and his brother entered the building and headed towards the elevator.

There was nothing extra special about these parties, save for the fact that Kevin's parents were almost never home, and he had a twenty-five year old brother who provided the contraband alcohol. By the time the Davis brothers arrived, the party was already in full swing. It was wall-to-wall people in the sprawling loft, and at one of the far ends of the room was a five-piece rock band, ripping through a cover of "Blitzkrieg Bop", with nearly the entire party joining in at the refrain: "Hey! Ho! Let's go!"

Roger bobbed his head excitedly to the music as he and Michael weaved their way through the bodies. There were blue and white Christmas lights strung up—Immaculate Soul colors—and behind the band was a hand-painted banner with _ISSH CLASS OF 87 _sprawled across it.

"At least the music is decent!" Roger shouted to Michael, who simply nodded in agreement. He led them directly to the keg off to the left side of the room, not far from the band.

"Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike!" hooted one of the guys at the keg, slapping Michael a high five. He was lanky and at least six and a half feet tall, with dark brown hair and glasses. "What's _up_?"

"Not much, dude," Michael replied with a grin.

"Who's the kid?" asked another, this one holding the party pump to the keg. He used it to gesture towards Roger. He was blond, with chiseled features.

"My brother," Michael replied, thwacking Roger on the back. Roger tried not to wince. "Roger's gonna be the big man at ISSH when I leave!"

_I am?_ Roger thought to himself. Michael's friends looked at Roger expectantly. Roger didn't know what to say except, "This band is great!"

"Oh, you mean Whips and Chains? Yeah, they're pretty kick ass," said the blond. "Their singer's a righteous babe, too!"

Roger glanced over at the stage for the first time and wondered how he didn't notice straightaway that the lead singer was a girl—not only a girl, but a downright cute one at that. She was slight and small-chested; her face was round like the full moon. Her dark brown hair was streaked through with blue, with long bangs that fell in her eyes. Her look was punk—ripped jeans, black Doc Martens and a black tank-top with _Beauty School Dropout_ written across it in bright green. She was holding the mic with both hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet in time with the music. She had a hell of a voice. "Hey! Ho! Let's go!" she urged the partygoers.

Michael nudged Roger, snapping him back to reality, "That's her!"

"What?!" Roger asked, pretending not to hear his brother.

"That's the girl!" Michael shouted.

"What girl?!"

"The one who moved in by Grace!"

"The what?!"

"Never mind! I'll…tell you later!" Michael handed Roger a plastic cup of beer and gave him a playful shove. "Go get 'em, tiger!"

Roger shook his head and took a sip of his beer. Sometime his brother could be a complete ass. The band brought "Blitzkrieg Bop" to an end and the partygoers cheered. The singer pumped her fist up in the air and nodded her head as the drummer counted off the beat to the next song, which was revealed to be "Touch of Grey" by the Grateful Dead, another song with a catchy refrain: "I will get by."

He eased through the crowd and positioned himself by the stage so he could get a better look at the band. Besides the singer, there were two guitarists: one with bleached blond hair, the other played shirtless. The bassist modeled a spiked dog collar around his neck and the drummer, sporting a Mohawk, easily weighed at least 300 pounds. They were certainly a motley crew, but the singer stood out like a diamond in the rough.

When their rendition of "Touch of Grey" ended, greeted by whoops and cheering, the singer leapt off the platform and gave high fives to those who offered them. Someone handed her a beer and she took it, drinking deeply. Roger maneuvered his way through the crowd until he was standing beside her. He nervously stood in her perimeter until he worked up the nerve to tap her on the shoulder. "Hey…excuse me?"

She turned to face him. "Hi," she said with a shy smile. She took another sip of her beer. Her eyes were beryl, ringed with smoky eyeliner. Her lips were watermelon pink.

"Hi. You don't know me," Roger blurted, "but…I'm…well…" he cleared his throat. His tongue suddenly felt covered with dust and couldn't get words out. "You're a great singer!"

Her face broke into a wide smile, "Hey, thanks!" she exclaimed. "Um…you're right, I don't know you. You are…?"

"Roger. Roger Davis." He held his hand out for her to shake, which she did, enthusiastically.

"I'm Stella Feldman," she introduced herself.

"Hi," he repeated. "Well, I just wanted to let you know…that you're a great singer."

Her smile faltered slightly, "Thanks. You said that already."

"Oh! Oh, sorry…sorry, I'm just…I'm kind of shy, I guess, and nervous…sorry."

Stella giggled, "Well, it's kind of cute," she said.

"Hey! Stella!" beckoned the guitarist who had been playing shirtless. "STELL-AAAAAAAAH!"

Stella rolled her eyes, "How long have you been sitting on that one, Marlon Brando?"

"Come on, just get up here so we can finish the set!"

Stella sighed and turned to Roger, "Well, I better go. I guess I'll talk to you later."

"I guess so," Roger replied with a small smile. He watched Stella step back up onto the platform. He remained close by the stage and watched the band get organized and then they started up the next tune. After the first few chords, Roger recognized it as "Highway to Hell." He half-expected one of the guys to step up and take over the vocals on this one, but his eyed widened in surprise when Stella opened her mouth to mimic Bon Scott's rock-and-roll scream almost to perfection.

"_Livin' easy, lovin' free! Season ticket on a one-way ride! Askin' nothin', leave me be! Takin' everythin' in my stride!"_

Michael suddenly appeared at Roger's side, already slightly tipsy. "Heeeeey," he drawled. "Saw you talking to the singer. Pretty hot, huh?"

"Sure," Roger said casually.

Michael knocked his brother on the back again. "You gonna make a move?"

"We'll see."

"Atta boy!" Michael guffawed. "Go for the gold, Wild Child!" Roger just rolled his eyes.

The band played three more songs before Stella announced the band was going to be taking a break. She placed the microphone back on the stand and again jumped down from the platform, right in front of Roger. She grabbed his hand. "Come on."

Roger gave a surprised laugh, "Where are you taking me?"

"Outside! Come on," she urged, pulling him along. He could only imagine what everyone else in the party was thinking. She led him out the door of the loft and to a nearby staircase. In the dim light, Roger noticed a thin sheen of sweat across her forehead. "God, I love New York—always a rooftop to escape to!" She practically pulled him up the staircase to the roof entrance. When she opened the heavy steel door, Roger's lungs burned with the rush of the fresh air.

"Mmmm," Roger sighed in agreement. "My brothers and I used to sleep on the roof when the weather got really hot."

"Me too! Well, I don't have any siblings, so me and my cousins would do that," Stella replied. She sauntered over to the ledge and leaned against it. "Look at this city! I want to make love to it sometimes!" She spread her arms wide and threw her head back in a boisterous laugh. Roger just watched her for a few seconds before joining her by the ledge. The wind blew in hot.

"So," Roger said, feeling more at ease now that they weren't at the party, "how long have to been singing with the band? What're they called—?"

"Whips and Chains. And not long," she explained. "Six months."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen. You?"

"I am, too. I thought you were older."

"I thought you were older, too!" They shared a nervous laugh. She cleared her throat and continued. "Well, my cousin Matt knows them; they needed a singer and he told them about me, how I can rock pretty fucking hard for a girl."

"You really can."

"Thanks. Anyway, I auditioned for them and they were pretty blown away. I'm their youngest member, ever. It's kind of cool. I get special passes to all the clubs that are eighteen and over because I'm with the band."

Roger just nodded in response. He looked out over the cityscape. "Whenever I'm on a roof, I always think about this one song by Elton John…'sat on the roof and I kicked off the moss. A few of these verses, well they've got me quite crossed…'"

"_But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song. It's for people like you that keep it turned on_," Stella finished, singing.

"You _know_ it."

"Of course I do!_ So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do—_"

"_You see I've forgotten if they're green or blue_," Roger added. They sang the last line of the verse together:

"_Anyway the thing is what I really mean: yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen._"

Roger smiled broadly and diverted his gaze, blushing slightly. Stella gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. He laughed. "That was one of the first songs I learned how to play on the piano."

"You play piano?"

"And guitar. I taught myself," he added.

"I've always wanted to learn piano," she mused.

"I could teach you," Roger shrugged, "free of charge."

"Aw that's sweet," she smirked. "Assuming I would pay you in the first place!"

"You couldn't afford me," he joked.

She laughed. "I had a feeling you were a guitar player, though. You have that rock-star look."

"Well, maybe I'm just invoking my namesake," Roger replied. "My mom named me after Roger Daltrey, from the Who. She saw them play at Woodstock."

"My parents named me after _A Streetcar Named Desire_," Stella explained. "I guess they didn't realize that Tennessee Williams was an anti-Semite. That's like naming a Jewish kid Adolf, isn't it?"

"After _what_? A streetcar?"

"_A Streetcar Named Desire_? You know, Stanley Kowalski standing half-naked in the middle of the street, yelling: 'STELL-AAAAAH!'" Roger gave her a strange stare. "Oh come on! You've never heard of _A Streetcar Named Desire_? It's a very famous play."

"I'm not too into plays," Roger replied with a shrug.

"Ah. Well, there's nothing wrong with that. Imagine my surprise when I found out my name derived from a scene where Stanley is apologizing to his wife after beating her."

"Whoa, that's heavy."

"Tell me about it."

They stood in silence for a few more minutes, just watching the skyline. Finally, it was Stella who tapped Roger's shoulder. "Come on. We should be getting back."

* * *

Whips and Chains kicked off their second set with a rock version of "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" Roger watched the entire time. Occasionally, Stella would shoot him a wink or a smile or make a suggestive dance move in his direction. He felt like he was getting a private show. 

When the band was done playing for the night, Stella spent the party at Roger's side. They camped out on the couch, drinking beer and talking about music. At one point, someone passed them a joint, and they each took a few hits. Roger's head was swimming nicely. When Michael found them, it was nearly two AM.

"Say goodbye, Romeo," he said, more than a little tipsy. "We gotta split." He went off to give farewells to his friends.

Roger glanced at Stella, "Sorry. He can be a real dick sometimes."

"It's okay," she assured him. "It was really cool hanging out with you all night, though. I usually get so bored at these kinds of things."

"Me too," Roger lied. "I guess we're both kind of forced to be here."

"Yeah." Stella reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. She unwrapped a piece and put it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. An awkward silence settled in. Roger said the first thing that popped into his head.

"Hey, you think I could get a piece?" he asked. "My grandma will kill me if I come home smelling like beer and pot."

Stella turned to him and gave him a mischievous smile. "Sure," she said. Before Roger knew what was happening, she had moved her body so that she was straddling him. She tilted his head back and kissed him full on the lips.

At first, Roger's eyes widened in shock, but soon relaxed once he realized how much he enjoyed it. His hands moved to her hips, then stroking her thighs. As soon as he did this, her kisses became a little more forceful and she slipped her tongue into his mouth. He made a small noise of surprise and furrowed his brow.

Then, just as quickly as she'd come on, Stella pulled away. She smiled in a coquettish way, patted his head and sauntered off into the crowd of the party.

It took Roger a few dumbstruck seconds to realize he was now chewing her gum.

* * *

A/N: Again, SO SORRY for the delay. I had to rework the plotline of the fic just a little bit. I don't control these characters—I'm just taking dictation Plus this particular chapter, for some reason, gave me a lot of trouble. I guess it was the introduction of Stella. But here it is, and Chapter 9 is underway. 

Also, a little note about the gum scene! That idea came to me quite suddenly on 10/4/07—while I was seeing _Rent_ for the _10__th_ time (yes, I saw Adam and Anthony again! I was also in the audience for their final matinee on the 7th). But anyway, I was chewing gum during the show and the idea just popped into my head during "Christmas Bells". I was so unable to contain myself that I took out a pen and just started writing! I wrote that entire scene on the back of the NO PHOTOGRAPHY slip from the Playbill. I wrote from "Seasons of Love" until the beginning of "Goodbye Love". I felt kind of bad that I was writing while everyone around me was sobbing (my two friends included), but I'm sure all of you hardcore writers out there know what I mean—when an idea hits you, you just gotta write before the idea is gone!!!


	9. Progress

Roger and Stella spent nearly the entire summer together. Whenever Whips and Chains had a gig, Roger was in attendance. He became friends with the other members of the band, all of whom were between the ages of 18 and 21. They were pretty laid back guys, unaffected by the fact that the front of their band was a sixteen-year-old girl.

"She draws the crowds," explained Declan, one of the guitarists, when Roger broached the subject one night when they were all together. Declan and Leo, the bassist, happened to also be cousins, and they shared an apartment Morningside Heights, not far from Columbia University, where they were both students. Their apartment was a regular hangout for the band. Roger was there so often now he considered it a second home as well. He and Stella weren't officially a couple, and neither was ready to bring the other around their respective families.

"Who doesn't want to gawk at jailbait jumping around onstage?" added Travis, the other guitarist, the one with bleached hair. "Why do you think Tiffany and Samantha Fox and Debbie Gibson are so popular?"

"Dude, the fact that you know who those chicks are frightens me," chuckled Charlie, the obese drummer. His Mohawk changed colors every so often, and on this night it was pink.

"So it doesn't bother you that Stella kind of steals your glory?" Roger asked.

Leo shook his head. "No, man, she can have it."

"As long as she doesn't want top billing," Charlie added. "I'm not gonna be any part of no backup band."

Occasionally, during these hangouts, Roger would bring his guitar on Stella's insistence. She usually had to persuade him to play, though he didn't usually feel comfortable performing for the guys in the band. He felt like it was showing off, but after the first few times he played for them, they were, of course, impressed by his skills—especially with the fact that he could hear a song once and reproduce it nearly perfectly.

"You only play acoustic?" asked Travis after Roger had played a rendition of "Come Together" by the Beatles for the guys another night, about a week later. It was the last night of July, and stifling hot. The cousins had propped open their windows with two-by-fours and a metal tub of ice and beer sat in place of the coffee table in the center of the living area. Electric fans were gyrating in the corners of the room. The Misfits played on the tape deck.

"It's all I've ever played," Roger admitted, playing with the tuning keys on the headstock of the guitar. "This Martin was my mom's."

"You've never played electric?"

"Nope. Not at all."

"Hmm," Travis mused. He got up off the couch where he'd been sitting. "Dec, you mind if I borrow your guitar and amp for a second?"

"Go right ahead," Declan replied from his oversized beanbag chair. He took a pull from his beer. His long dark hair fell into his eyes. He wore a rumpled white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned.

Travis went into Declan's bedroom and returned momentarily with Declan's ebony Les Paul Standard, dragging the amp behind him.

"Be careful with that amp," Declan snapped as he watched Travis tug it along.

"I am," Travis replied. He slipped the Les Paul over his head. Declan had attached a strap to it that had daisies embroidered on it. "So, Roger—would you say you're a fast learner?"

"You heard him play," Stella piped up. She and Roger had been sitting together on the loveseat across from the sofa, her legs swung over his lap, her head propped up on the arm rest. "_And_ he's self-taught, you know."

"Thank you, Stella, but I believe I was talking to Roger."

"Yeah, I'm a fast learner," Roger replied quickly.

"So, would you be willing to learn electric guitar?" Travis plugged the guitar into the amp. It squealed slightly as Travis adjusted the volume.

"Oh…well, I never really considered it. Why?" Roger asked. He leaned in and propped his elbows up onto his knees.

"Because," Travis said, "at the end of August, I'm heading out."

Leo snapped his fingers, "That's right."

Stella's face fell. "Oh, _Travis_…you had to go and remind me…"

"Leave the boy alone," Charlie spoke up with a grin. "He's off to greener pastures, right?"

"Greener? That's for sure," Travis asked. He turned to Roger and said, "I got a full scholarship to Ohio State, on their Columbus campus, which ultimately means I have to leave the band. I love the band and all, but I _can't_ pass something like this up."

"I don't blame you," Roger nodded.

"But this means," Travis continued, "that we need a new guitarist." There was a silence in the room, and all eyes were on Travis. Even Stella sat up and looked at him. "What?" he asked. "Come on, who else we know can play like this kid here?"

"Travis, dude," Declan leaned in. "What are you doing?"

"Dec, are you gonna disagree with me?"

Declan stood. "I can't believe you think we should replace you with this _kid_—and that's all he is: a _kid_! I'm not turning this band into the Mickey Mouse Club! We've already got _her_—" he pointed to Stella.

"Leave her out of this," Leo said.

"Dec, calm down," Charlie stood as well. "I think Travis has a great idea."

"You're going to _side_ with _him_?!"

Leo came over to where Stella and Roger were sitting. "I think you guys should leave," he said. "We need to have a band meeting."

Stella scrambled to stand. "I'm part of the band!" she protested. "Why am I being asked to leave?"

"Because, no offense, but you're dating him," Leo nodded in Roger's direction. Roger wished the couch would swallow him. "You can't be impartial."

Stella rolled her eyes. "Come on, Roger," she said, grabbing him by the wrist.

"Uhm," Roger stammered as Stella grabbed him off the couch, giving him barely enough time to grab his guitar, "I'll see you guys later, I hope."

Stella slammed the door of the apartment behind him and she gave a frustrated groan. "I am _so_ sorry about that," she said.

"It's okay," Roger replied. "So where do we go now?"

"I don't know," she sighed, looking over her shoulder at the closed door. "I didn't think Dec would get so upset about that. Look, let's just get out of here. If we stay here any longer, I might kick the door down and go Patty Hearst on their asses."

* * *

Roger steered clear of the apartment in Morningside Heights for two weeks before Stella called him and said, "We need to go to Dec and Leo's after the gig tonight. They have something they want to tell you." 

"Really?" He couldn't read the tone of her voice. "That's…cool I guess."

"Well, they wouldn't tell me what was going on. They completely left me out of this," Stella griped. "I swear, sometimes I think I really _am_ just a pretty face and not a part of the band."

Whips and Chains played that night at a club in Greenwich Village called Skids. Stella wore a shirt proclaiming _Look But Don't Touch_. She'd changed the dye in her hair from blue to green. They opened their first set with "Why Don't We Do It In The Road" by the Beatles, which Roger had heard them play several times before, except during this performance, Stella licked the mic and blew Roger kisses. They followed it with Eric Clapton's "Cocaine". They alternated their cover songs with original works, some of them with lyrics that Stella had written for the band before she was even an official member.

In between sets, Roger and Stella were attached. His back was against the wall and she would press into him as they kissed. Usually public displays of affection like that made him shy, but the more he did it, the more he liked it.

Whips and Chains concluded their show at midnight, after playing for two hours. The last song was Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart". Stella sang this song to mainly the guys who had pushed themselves up against the stage, obviously doing exactly what Travis admitted they did: gawking at the jailbait. She would lean over towards them, as if to give them a kiss, only to pull away at the last moment.

They didn't leave Skids until a quarter to one, and they made their way towards Tom's Restaurant, which was located only a few blocks away from Declan and Leo's apartment in Morningside Heights. Charlie and Travis each lit up a cigarette as soon as they were all seated around a table. The waitress served them with coffee and they ordered two large servings of disco fries.

"Heart attack on a plate!" Charlie declared once the waitress took their order.

"All right, down to business, guys," Travis said, knocking on the table. "We're all exhausted and, frankly, slightly drunk, so let's get this over with, stuff ourselves and then pass out. Agreed?"

"Agreed," everyone else replied simultaneously.

"Roger," Travis turned to him, "the band and I have done a lot of talking. And we decided that you pretty much know what the fuck you're doing."

"I _told_ you," Stella muttered around the rim of her coffee mug.

"So," Travis continued, ignoring Stella's remark, "after a lot of talking, fighting, weighing pros and cons…we definitely want you to replace me in the band."

Roger's eyes widened, "Seriously?"

"Seriously. We've been auditioning replacements since May and we haven't liked anyone as much as we liked you, despite the fact that you're still a kid. But you can melt faces with that guitar skill of yours, man. It's doable."

"YES!" Stella exclaimed, wrapping her arms around Roger's shoulders and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "You're _in_!"

"Wow," Roger grinned. "This is…I gotta admit, pretty kick ass."

"It _is _pretty kick ass," Charlie agreed.

"Welcome to the only life you'll ever have," Leo declared happily. "After you've played in a band, you'll never want to do anything else ever again."

Roger laughed, "I don't have any doubt about that."

Declan was the first to raise his coffee mug. "To Roger—here's to long nights, sex, drugs and rock-and-roll!"

Leo, Travis, Charlie and Stella mimicked Declan. "To Roger!" they cheered.

Roger ducked his head and blushed as they toasted him. He smiled to himself. So _this_ is what belonging to something really felt like.

* * *

A/N: Q & A with the author! 

x Rajah x: _On the 7th, and the matinee, huh? Well, if you wrote through most of the second act, were you too busy writing to catch Adam's fall?_ Nope. I didn't write at that show. I wrote during the evening show on the 4th. I saw Adam's fall during the matinee on the 7th from my box seat perfectly clearly. My friend and I were rolling on the floor.

For those of you who have no idea what we're referring to, here's the short version…During "Happy New Year", Roger sings to Mimi, "Last week, I wanted just to disappear/My life was dust/But now it just may be/a happy new year! A happy new year!" And while he's singing this, he's actually stepping backwards. So, poor Adam, he's singing, he's walking backwards and as he's singing, we hear him go, "It just may be a happy new y—WOAH!" and then the next thing we know, he trips and falls flat on his ass, legs splayed out in front of him. And Tamyra Gray (Mimi), she just bursts out into a giggle fit (not to mention the entire audience)!

Renthead07: _OK, so how the hell did you write during _Rent_? I suppose you knew exactly what was going on, even though you weren't watching it, because you'd seen it so much?_ Exactly, my friend. I looked up every so often, but for the most part, I was writing. It was still pleasant enough to listen, though

_How did you get tickets TEN TIMES?_ Well, actually, I've seen it eleven times. The first time I saw it, I got tickets through my high school. Since then? One word, baby: LOTTERY! Seriously, you can't beat a $20 front-row ticket. And I live close enough to the city (about a 40 minute bus ride) that this isn't such an inconvenience. I go in sometimes once a month to try my luck. When I don't get lotto seats, I'll usually opt for best available seating for $50—but that's only if my bank account can handle such a blow!


	10. Presentation

Many years later, Roger would look back and pinpoint the summer he joined Whips and Chains to be the beginning of his music career. Leo was right—from then on, nothing else felt like an option for him. It was either play music or cease to be.

In the weeks following his invitation to be Travis's replacement, Roger attended every band rehearsal and every gig. He eventually started substituting for Travis every other gig, borrowing Travis's bright red Fender Mustang. Eventually, Travis phased out of the lineup and, by the last week in August, Roger's membership was cemented.

The night before Travis was to leave for Columbus, Leo and Declan threw him a farewell party at their apartment. Travis played one more time with the band and, after the final song—"I Want You to Want Me" by Cheap Trick—Stella, Charlie, Declan and Leo each opened a beer and poured it over Travis's head.

Roger and Stella escaped to the roof of the building a little after midnight to share a joint that Charlie had rolled for them earlier. Being the youngest people at the party, once the band got finished playing, their fun was short lived. They found comfort in one another.

"Promise me it won't get weird," Roger asked. He watched Stella light up the joint and take a deep drag.

"I can't promise anything," she replied while holding her breath. She passed the joint to Roger. She coughed after holding it for a few seconds, gagging on the bitter smoke. She wiped spittle from her lower lip with the back of her hand. "I think I want my tongue pierced."

"But it'll be kind of weird, won't it?" Roger prodded. He inhaled on the joint and held his breath. The pot made his throat burn. His eyes watered and he coughed violently.

"Shit, why do we do this to ourselves?" Stella giggled as Roger passed the joint.

"Cheap thrills," he said dryly. They went back and forth on the blunt for a few minutes. Roger glanced up at the night sky. The stars seemed infinite, so bright. It seemed like the number of stars had quadrupled. The moon was so round and large and close he could touch it.

"How will it get weird?" Stella asked.

"Well…us. You and me. In the band? Together? And we—"

"We're together," Stella finished. She licked her lips before placing the tip of the joint in her mouth. "You're my boyfriend; I'm your girlfriend. We're Roger and Stella. SF hearts RD."

"Really?"

She nodded. She was holding her breath, keeping the smoke in. Her eyes were watering too. She exhaled on another cough. "I should really stop this. It's gonna screw up my voice. God I'm such a fucking masochist." The joint was almost gone.

"We should get drunk instead."

"Drinking's bad for you."

They paused, looked at each other, and burst into a fit of laughter. They laughed until they couldn't stand up straight, and they were holding their stomachs and sitting on the gravel top of the roof. Roger wiped tears from his eyes.

They sat with their backs up against the ledge, their laughter carrying. Stella sighed and put her head in Roger's lap, the joint dangling from her fingers. "W-why are we laughing?"

"I…I have no friggin' clue," Roger replied. He took the joint from her and took another hit. His throat burned. "Your pupils are dilated. They look like marbles."

"I...am so…fucking _stoned_."

"I feel like I'm floating."

Stella sat up, her face inches from his. "I love you." She kissed him. His heart pounded. "You're my boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I guess…I didn't know we were official yet."

"Well, now you do. And it won't get weird. Rock-and-roll is forever," she declared. She kissed him again and then proceeded to give him a hickey on his neck, just below his ear. "And so are we."

* * *

A week after Travis left, Roger attended his first band practice as an official member. He brought his acoustic Martin out of habit, and had rehearsed in his head how he could explain to the rest of the guys why he didn't have an electric yet. 

The band might have hung out in Morningside Heights, but they practiced at Charlie's loft in Soho, where he lived with his girlfriend Toshya, a Russian nursing student who also went to Columbia University, like Declan and Leo. The loft was spacious, and they usually rehearsed in the afternoon when people were least likely to complain.

Roger and Stella usually went to rehearsals together, but she'd called him the previous night to tell him he was on his own this time.

"I've got something I need to do," she said, "I don't know how long it'll take. Go ahead without me. I'll meet you there."

So, Roger traveled on his own. Routinely, he'd come home from school, changed out of his uniform, grabbed the Martin in its case, and go pick up Stella, and together they'd go to Charlie's. He'd never made the trip on his own. Even the rest of the guys were surprised when Roger appeared solo.

"Whoa, where's your Siamese twin?" Leo asked.

"Lover's quarrel," Declan teased.

"No, nothing like that," Roger insisted. He put his guitar case down. "She said she had something she needed to do first and she'd be here later."

"Well, we're getting kicked out of here kind of early tonight," Charlie announced. "Toshya has an exam tomorrow, and she's on call tonight. So, all noise must cease by six."

"Don't worry, that's completely doable," Declan said.

"What's with the Martin case?" Charlie gestured towards it with his drumsticks.

Roger inwardly winced and swallowed hard. He sighed and said, "Well, you see…about that—"

The door to the loft opened and slammed shut. "Hey!" Stella's voice rang out. "Sorry I'm late. I'm here now."

She came into the room wearing a shredded denim skirt, hot pink Chucks and a Ramones t-shirt, knotted at the waist to show a few inches of tummy. At the beginning of the school year, her mother had made her dye her hair back so that it was all in one shade, except she'd bleached just the tips out of defiance. She was dragging with her a rather large hard-shell case. She balanced the case on one end and sat on the floor, slightly out of breath.

"Where have _you_ been?" Roger asked.

"Hard to run an errand," she replied. "Just gimme a sec…gotta catch my breath…"

"Stella, we're on a time crunch," Declan came over to pull Stella up by her elbow.

"Excuse me," Stella yanked her arm away, "but did you just lug something that weighs more than you do from Hell's Kitchen to SoHo? No, I don't think so."

"Well, why don't you show us what that _thing_ is so we can get this show on the road?" Leo insisted.

"All right, already," Stella sighed. "Gather 'round, kids."

Leo slipped his bass over his head and Charlie hoisted his massive frame off his stool to come over to where Stella was now kneeling on the hardwood floor. Roger followed. Stella pulled the case down carefully towards her. She unclasped the metal closures and flipped open the lid.

"Ooh," Declan awed. "Pretty nifty, Stell. That's a nice piece."

"Thanks," she said proudly.

Roger craned his neck around Leo to see what was in the case. Lying within, surrounded in a black velvet inlay, was a Fender Telecaster electric guitar, in Vintage White.

"Yeah, that's a beauty alright," Leo agreed. "Except you do know that we _have_ two guitar players already? And we don't need a _third_? Can you even _play_ guitar?"

Stella rolled her eyes. "No. But it's not for me—it's for Roger."

The other guys of the bang gave Roger an incredulous look. Roger just blinked in surprise. "You…you bought me a _guitar_?"

She nodded proudly. "Yup."

"…But _why_?"

"Because," she said, feigning exasperation, "you don't have one." She lifted it out of the case and held it out to him. "Isn't it awesome? It's the same model that George Harrison and Pete Townshend and Keith Richards play. If you don't like the color, I can see about exchanging—"

Roger didn't let her finish. Stella barely had enough time to get the guitar out of the way before he reached out and pulled her into a generous hug, still in awe of her bigheartedness. "I don't know what to say…Stella, I c—thank you. I can't thank you enough. I can't believe you _did_ this."

"It was my pleasure."

"I'll pay you back one day."

"Don't worry about it," she insisted, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Consider it a gift."

"Well," said Declan, "now that our new guitarist actually _has_ a guitar, let's get kickin'. Leo, grab my extra amp? I think I've got some extra wires too."

Leo went into a nearby closet and pulled out Declan's spare amp. Roger was still sitting in utter disbelief, the guitar in his hands. This was _his_. A real electric guitar, one just like George Harrison and Pete Townshend played.

"I said to the guy at the music store," Stella said, "I want a guitar that'll make my boyfriend look like the rock star he is. Did I achieve?"

Roger just nodded and kissed her again. "This is the most awesome thing anyone has ever done for me."

Stella giggled and blushed. "Look, I had some money from my bat mitzvah left over. What else was I going to do with it?"

"Hey, lovebirds!" Charlie called. "Come on! We have a gig next weekend! We gotta get going!"

Roger gave a nervous laugh and Declan handed him the wires to plug the Telecaster into the amp. "Time to rock," he said.

* * *

A/N: Short chapter, I know, but trust me, this is all going somewhere! 

Also to Renthead07, and so that no one else gets it wrong—I saw Adam and Anthony only five times. I've seen _Rent_, overall, eleven times. But that's over the course of three years! Heh. And no, I'm not bragging, just trying to clear up confusion.


	11. Practice

The band consumed all of Roger's free time, and he loved every minute of it. Declan had given Roger his extra amp to take home ad get some extra practice time in—and did he ever. It seemed as if he wasn't with Stella, or with the band, or at school, he was in his room practicing. Now that he had the Telecaster, he could mimic the sounds of the Who and the Grateful Dead and the Beatles; Fleetwood Mac, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton. He bought newer records—Billy Idol, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones—with the little pocket money that came from playing the few-and-far-between paying gigs. Both Travis and Declan had taught him about pickups, whammy boards, flanging and phasing, all the different effects for sound on an electric.

Back when his brothers were dropped off at his grandmother's eleven years ago, and once it became clear his mother wasn't coming back, Mary Jude had sent her oldest son, their uncle Owen, back to the East Village loft where Carrie and the boys had lived to collect their belongings—clothes, toys, and Carrie's record player with her vinyl collection. Roger had seized these last two items and kept them, listening to certain records over and over. Now that he was playing music of his own, he would listen them more carefully, picking out the guitar parts so that he could play along with them. He played _Who's Next_ repeatedly, obsessed with the sounds of "Baba O'Riley" and "Won't Get Fooled Again".

Influenced by these songs, Roger began writing on his own—some he showed to the band, some he showed only to Stella. Some he kept under his mattress with the postcard from Sister Cecilia. No matter who heard his original music, he was showered with praise.

The only one who seemed to have a problem with Roger's newfound obsession was his grandmother. Mary Jude frowned on nearly every new aspect of his personality shift—from the "older crowd" he was running with to the Jewish girl he was supposedly dating.

"Roger," she admonished him as he was on his way to Charlie's for a rehearsal one afternoon. "This isn't what a boy your age should be doing."

"What isn't?" he asked, hoisting the Telecaster in its carrying case onto his shoulder.

"This!" she waved her hand in his general direction. He wore a leather jacket, a plain white t-shirt and ripped jeans. On his feet was a pair of black Converse sneakers. Oversized aviator-style sunglasses dangled from the neckline of his shirt. Stella always said he looked like James Dean in this particular getup. "You look…you look like a gang member. Like a hoodlum. It's disgraceful. This music thing was supposed to help you! Now you're right back to where you started!"

"Am I?" Roger narrowed his eyes. "Am I getting into fights and getting detentions and getting the crap kicked out of me at school?"

"You're on the wrong track," Mary Jude insisted. "Hanging out with those older boys and that Jew girl in those wicked places, playing that horrid music. You're acting like your mother! What's next, Roger? Drugs? If I find drugs on you at any time, I will throw you out so fast, I swear to Jesus. I've put up with a lot from you these passed eleven years but so help me God—"

"What're you gonna do to me, Gran?" Roger snapped at her. "Search my room? Give me piss tests?"

"Watch your tongue!"

"I'm doing what I _love_," Roger argued. "You have no right to stop me."

"I am _trying_ to save your soul."

"It doesn't need to be saved!"

"You don't know that!"

"All I know is that if you don't let me play my music, you might as well just shoot me dead. I won't be happy unless I'm playing music. A life without music is a life I don't want to live!"

"Roger, that's blasphemy!" Mary Jude shook her head. "I don't understand you anymore."

"Nobody's understood me for a long time."

"You have such hostility in you!"

"Whatever, Gran. Look, I gotta get going. Stella's waiting for me. I'll be home around nine, okay?" He was out the door before she could say anything else.

* * *

"I mean, I feel like I'm obligated to love her, but she just pisses me off sometimes," Roger griped to Stella as he smoked a cigarette on their walk from the subway to Charlie's loft. He kept his packs of Marlboros in the lining of the Telecaster's case, where he was sure his grandmother wouldn't find them. 

"I'm sure she's just worried about you," Stella replied.

"She thinks I'm bad like my mom," Roger said. "She thinks that the band is gonna lead to my demise…or something."

"How can she compare you to your mom? You're two completely different generations."

"I don't know. You know, back when my mom was my age, she was far worse than I was. At least I don't come home high on acid or try to run away to California. Back when she was my age, rebellion _meant_ something."

"You don't think what we're doing means something?"

"No! I do! But it's different!"

"How?"

"I don't know! It just is!" he barked. He inhaled violently on his cigarette before speaking again. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"I didn't mean to snap at you."

"I know you didn't," Stella said as she pressed the buzzer to be let up into Charlie's loft. She reached out to play with the curls on the back of Roger's neck. "You're just upset. I get it."

He gave her a weak smile. "Thanks." He sneaked a kiss before Charlie buzzed them up.

* * *

In a strange turn, Declan was late for practice. He was usually the first one there, besides Charlie. Not even Leo knew where he had gone off to. 

"I saw him on campus for about two seconds," he related to everyone. "So I know he left the apartment this morning."

"I hope we're not on a time crunch tonight," Roger said.

"Nope," Charlie replied, his Mohawk orange. "Toshya gave us her blessing tonight."

"That was nice of her," Stella said.

"Behave. We're lucky she lets us practice here at all."

The loft door opened and closed. "Hey," called Declan. "You guys—I have the most incredible news!" He came into the room, his Les Paul slung over his shoulder. His long dark hair was pulled back into a short ponytail and wore a Queen t-shirt.

"More incredible than you being late?" Stella raised an eyebrow. "Because that's pretty fucking incredible."

"Shut up," Declan rolled his eyes. "Trust me, this is groundbreaking!"

"Well, stop being a douche bag about it and tell us!" Leo insisted.

"I got us an audition," Declan said, slipping off his guitar, "to play at CBGB's."

Silence. Complete and utter silence. This lasted for about five minutes before everyone erupted:

"Are you shittin' me?! Are you _shittin'_ me?!"

"I can't believe that!"

"You cannot be serious!"

"Who's dick did you suck for that favor?"

"How the hell—?"

"What the fuck—?"

"When?!"

"Next week," Declan said. "They're having an open call for the bill."

"That's crazy!" Charlie exclaimed.

"It's _revolutionary_!" awed Stella. "People have been _discovered_ there!"

"If it can happen to the Ramones and Blondie and the Talking Heads, it can happen to us," Roger said excitedly. "Think about what this could mean!"

"Oh my _God_!" Stella sighed. "I'm going to sing on the same stage as _Joey Ramone_!"

"I know, right?" Declan grinned. "I just know we're gonna blow them away!"

* * *

A/N: Another short chapter, but there's a good reason for this! This and chapter 12 were originally one chapter, but I had to split them before it was even finished, or else I'd end up with a 9-page chapter. I figured that it was better to have two short chapters than one obscenely long one! 


	12. Prurience

The audition went extremely well, and the proprietors of the club were pleased, proclaiming that Whips and Chains were "perfect" for their bill. Declan, not willing to risk anything, even went so far as to arrange for fake ID's for Roger and Stella, but they were never asked to produce them. The band was put on the bill for the week of Halloween, one of the club's most popular times of the year—three weeks from their audition day.

Whips and Chains rehearsed arduously for their CBGB's show. The weeks between the audition and the gig seemed to fly by and before they knew it, Declan had called a band meeting to brief them on what would be going down on that night. In an attempt to look professional, they decided on a theme of dressing all in red and black.

"And Leo," Declan said, "keep your shirt on, huh?"

"Aw, come on," Leo frowned. "What if I get hot?" Leo had an inclination to stripping shirtless during their gigs—not that the ladies complained.

"Deal with it. We don't know who's going to be at this show, and we want to look serious up there."

They decided to open their set with "Why Don't We Do It In The Road", knowing that Stella really worked that particular song.

"Really sex it up," Declan instructed. For some reason, when he said this, Roger felt a surge of hatred towards him.

"No problem," Stella replied happily. She giggled and tousled Roger's hair. "Don't get too jealous, huh?"

"I'm not jealous," Roger insisted, maybe too quickly.

"Sure," she grinned. "I know you are. But just try to have fun, okay?"

"I'll try."

"You will," she insisted. "Think about where we'll be tomorrow night. You don't get this kind of chance every day, you know! We're _so_ fucking _lucky_. Hundreds of bands would die to be there tomorrow! And just so you know, even though the boys love to oogle me, you're the only one who can do it for real."

* * *

For the first time in his life, Roger obsessed over what to wear the night of the gig. He had rummaged around in his closet, and in Eddie's, and even sifted through what Michael had left behind, for every red and/or black item of clothing he could scrounge up. Finally, hours before the gig, he caved and called Stella to help him out. 

"There's no need to fear, Stella the Fashionista is here!" she declared when he opened the door to let her into the house. She wore a strapless cotton tube dress that ended several inches above her knees. It was red with black polka dots and black trim, cinched with a thick black waistband. On her hands were Madonna-style black lace gloves, fingertips cut off, and on her feet were her black Doc Martens. Her dark brown hair was straightened, the bleached tips standing out, with her bangs hanging in her eyes.

"Hey," Roger smiled. "You look…amazing."

"Thank you," she smiled. She'd painted her lips bright red as well, to match her dress and her eyeliner was dark and heavy. "Come on; show me what you've got."

"It's not much," Roger admitted, leading her up to his bedroom. He'd moved into Michael's old room, now that Michael was at Georgetown. He had all the clothes spread out on his bed. "I raided my brothers' closets to see if they had anything different. But we pretty much all shared clothes growing up."

Stella surveyed the selection, "Actually, it's not bad. We can get you looking pretty classy."

Within two hours, after much debate and disagreements, she had him dressed in a pair of black slacks with a subtle white pinstripe, a black button-down shirt and a red and black plaid tie. His black Converse sneakers completed his look. She walked in a circle around him, admiring her handiwork.

"You clean up nice, Davis," she said with a smile. She unbuttoned the cuffs of the shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. "Now sit down. I'm going to do your makeup."

"_Makeup_?! You didn't say anything about makeup!" Roger crossed his arms over his chest. "No way."

"Oh please," Stella rolled her eyes and shoved Roger onto his bed. "You'll wear it and you'll like it. Come on—Billy Idol and David Bowie wear eyeliner." She laced her fingers together and tucked them under her chin and pouted. "Please, Roger?"

He hesitated. "If I don't like it, you have to take it off," he said.

She clapped her hands excitedly. "Trust me, you'll love it. You have beautiful eyes, Roger. I'm just _enhancing_ them."

"Yeah…sure."

He sat still as Stella framed his hazel eyes, top and bottom, with kohl, and she used a Q-tip to gently smear it so that it was subtle. She applied a single layer of mascara and then stepped back. "See? That was painless."

Roger glanced at himself in the mirror she handed him. "I can live with it," he announced after several seconds.

"Good." She looked at the clock. "Come on, we gotta blaze out of here. It's almost show time."

* * *

Whips and Chains were on the bill for nine PM, but Declan insisted that they all be there by seven. So, of course, everyone made it a point to be there at seven-thirty. Declan's hair was down, and he wore a red medieval style tunic with tight black pants. He was waiting outside in front of the club as Roger and Stella approached. 

"Glad to see you've decided to show up," he said, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Oh, save it," Stella scoffed. "You're just paranoid."

"Relax, Dec," Roger said, giving him a playful nudge. "This isn't a competition. It's just for fun. It's just rock-and-roll, right?"

"Oh, no: for Declan, it's not _just_ rock-and-roll," Stella said, "it's _life_!"

"Just get inside, you chuckleheads," Declan sighed, escorting them into the club.

Roger had never been inside CBGB's until he'd come with the band to audition almost a month ago, and it was love at first sight. Sure, the entire club could probably fit inside his grandmother's brownstone; and the floors were dirty and covered over with wooden planks that people easily tripped on; and every available surface was covered over with stickers or posters or graffiti and the bathroom stalls had no doors; and the stage was so small and narrow it looked as if it couldn't withstand the weight of an entire band—but he had a feeling the first time that he walked through those doors that it would not be the last.

The band playing at the moment had a pretty decent crowd against the stage, but it was only about three people deep, all of them in a weak mosh pit. The music they played sounded like bad punk—and there _was_ such a thing as bad punk. Just a cacophony of guitar riffs, sloppy drums and a bald front man screaming obscenities into the microphone.

"How the hell did they make it onto the bill?" Roger winced.

Declan shrugged, "Your guess is as good as mine."

The club was starting to fill in anticipation of the late-night set, which Whips and Chains were scheduled to kick off. Declan and Leo had made sure to spread the word about this show around Columbia, and they were expecting a bigger crowd.

They found Charlie sitting in the seating area, wearing head-to-toe black, with his Mohawk dyed blood red. The black thermal top he wore had spiked studs across the shoulders and chain-accented straps on the sleeves. His massive frame was wedged between the bench he was sitting on and the table in front of him. Toshya, his Russian girlfriend, was sitting beside him, also wearing all black. She was blonde and blue eyed, sharp-featured.

"Hey," Charlie said with a wave as Stella and Roger approached. He was smoking a cigarette. "You guys stoked?"

"Hell yeah!" Stella replied, bouncing on the balls of her feet, something she did when she was over-hyped on adrenaline. "This is so fucking incredible!"

Charlie laughed, "Yeah, too bad those cocksuckers on stage up there sound like a cat being run over with a street sweeper."

Leo came over, dressed in bright red baggy pants with black stitching, red and black straps, accented with silver chains, studs and grommets. On top he wore a simple black wife-beater. He had three beers in his hands. "Hey!" he said with a wide, silly grin on his face. His blonde hair was spiked on top. Roger could tell he was a little tipsy already. Leo put the beers on the table and picked Stella up, whirling her around. "Isn't this fucking amazing?!"

Stella laughed and squealed. "Leo, put me _down_!"

"You look fucking hot, Stell. Like a cherry pie! This is gonna be so fucking _rad_!" Leo put Stella down. "I'm fuckin' _pumped_. Are you psyched? I'm _totally_ psyched!"

"How much has he had to drink?" Roger whispered to Charlie.

"He'll be able to play, if that's what you're worried about," Charlie replied, laughing.

"I guess you'd know better than I would."

At eight-thirty, Declan and Charlie began setting up the stage for their set, putting together Charlie's drum set and hooking up guitars to amps and speakers. Declan had taught Roger how to use a stomp box weeks ago, so those were brought out as well. Even Stella, in her dress and lace gloves, helped with connecting wires and moving equipment.

At five after nine, they took the stage. When Declan, Leo and Charlie had said they invited a few friends to the show, they weren't kidding. The place was packed. When Roger stepped onto the stage and looked out over the mass of people, his heart fluttered like a butterfly in a jar.

"Hey," Leo gave Roger a friendly thwack on the back. "Nervous?"

Roger shook his head. Words weren't possible for him right now.

"Don't worry," Leo grinned as he played a riff on his electric bass. "Just picture everyone in their underwear…hey—are you wearing eyeliner? That's punk, man!"

Roger inwardly groaned.

Once Stella took the stage, front and center, the crowd cheered. A few guys wolf-whistled and one had the audacity to call out, "_Jailbait_, baby! Jailbait!" This caused a ripple of laughter; and Roger resisted the urge to leap off the stage and severely injure whoever said that.

But Stella took it all in stride. She just smiled, blew kisses and waited for the crowd to calm down by half before she opened her perfectly painted mouth and let her voice roar, "_Why don't we d-d-do it in the road?_" she sang. The cheering grew as the band joined in after the first line with tremendous guitar riffs and a steady, pounding drum beat. "_Why don't we do it in the road?_"

The song only contained the same line over and over again, but for some reason it was wildly popular—most likely because their version featured an under-age teenaged girl singing about "doing it" as she arched her back and strutted across the stage.

"_Why don't we do it in the road?_" she wailed into the mic. "_Oh, why don't we do it in the road?_" She went over to Declan, positioned on the far right of the stage, and sang towards him, leaning forward. They played off each other, as if she was propositioning him. "_No one will be watching us—why don't we do it in the road?_"

In the final chords of the song, Stella pranced over to Roger and sang as she was back to back with him, leaning against him. Roger felt a surge through his body as she pressed against him. "_Why don't we do it in the road?_" She glanced at him sideways as she finished the song, a sensual, come-hither look. "_No one will be watching us! Why don't we do it in the road?_"

As the song finished, Stella planted a deep, fiery kiss on Roger. The whooping of the crowd was deafening. Roger simply smiled and basked in the glory.

He couldn't imagine the rest of the night being any better than this.

* * *

Roger rolled over in bed and tucked his folded arms under his chin. He watched Stella sleep, admiring the way her hand lay curled beside her cheek, how her lips were slightly parted, as if she was about to speak. 

It was Stella's idea to go back to her apartment after the CBGB's show. Her parents weren't home. Her father was in Philadelphia on business and her mother, a nurse, worked the graveyard shift at Roosevelt Hospital. The rest of the band went back to Morningside Heights with a few friends for a celebratory late-night chow-down at Tom's. Stella and Roger declined and, as they walked hand-in-hand away from the club, Roger was sure the rest of the guys were speculating as to what could possibly be more important than disco fries and coffee at midnight.

She changed out of her dress and into more casual clothes. They'd each drank one beer from the fridge, sitting on the couch and recounting the memorable moments of the evening—Leo tripping over his bass wire, Charlie's amazing drum solos, a few bras being tossed in Roger's direction, and, of course, the kiss. Before either of them could comprehend what was happening, she was in his lap; they were kissing furiously. His hands stayed either on her waist or her hips until she took control, bringing them up to her breasts, sliding his hands beneath her _Rebel Without a Cause_ t-shirt. She was braless. His heart was pounding against his chest. He tried to control his erection, but they were in such a heated moment that when she positioned herself on top of him, it was nearly impossible. When she brushed against it, she gave him a smirk.

"I…sorry," he sputtered, reddening. "You were…on top. And I—"

"Roger," she whispered against his lips, "stop talking."

After several more heated moments on the couch, Stella took his hand and led him up to her bedroom. The walls were covered with posters and stickers—not unlike CBGB's. Her comforter was zebra-striped. They stretched out on the bed and she straddled him.

"I hope I'm not moving too fast for you," she had said softly, as she kissed his neck. Too in awe to speak, Roger just shook his head.

When she produced the condom from her night table drawer several minutes later, he hesitated. "Have you…?" he whispered.

She shook her head, "No. Not yet. But…well, have you?"

"No," he answered. "But I'd…well, I'd like to. I want to."

"I want to, too." She kissed him deeply once more.

It was slightly awkward, as first sexual encounters are, but when bodies are young and eager, the motions come almost naturally, and they find a rhythm and pattern to their actions. When he was between her thighs, his first attempt to enter her, the wince of pain on her face was unmistakable.

"Are you okay?" Roger whispered.

Stella nodded, "Just go…it's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine." She dug her nails into his shoulders in anticipation.

So he continued, but when the actual act began, he heard her whimper, just once, in a soft voice, "Ow". He bit his lower lip and offered once more to stop, but she insisted he continue. As they became used to the motions, Stella's expression relaxed and pain morphed into pleasure. They were pressed against each other, holding tightly, their breathing was heavy, their lips never left each other's skin. When they reached their climaxes, they had fallen asleep curled up against one another.

Stella rolled over and sighed softly. Her eyes fluttered open and she rubbed her eyes with the palm of her hand, smearing the remnants of last night's eyeliner. "Hi," she said with a small smile.

"Hi," Roger greeted.

She sat up slightly. "It's early."

"Nine," Roger stated. "I should be going soon."

She propped her head up on her raised elbow. "Why?" she asked, stroking his arm. There were little red marks there from her nails.

"My grandmother's going to wonder where I am."

"Didn't you tell her you were going to be out all night?"

"I told her I was going to be at Leo and Dec's place. But—"

"So, let's go out to breakfast," she smiled. She leaned in and kissed him.

* * *

A/N: Like I've said before, I've been to CBGB's twice. A lot of people (mainly fans of _Rent_) glorify it, especially those who have never been there—but the fact of the matter is: CBGB's was a glorified shithole. But hey, it was the birthplace of punk. What else do you expect? I loved that crappy little club and I'm sorry I was only there twice. 

Also, let us have a moment of silence for Hilly Kristal, founder of CBGB's, who died on 8/28/07

One last note: I keep using "Why Don't We Do It In The Road" as Whips and Chains' most popular song because not only is it an incredibly sexy song to begin with (first recorded by John Lennon; then again by Dana Fuchs for the movie _Across The Universe_, which is the version I use in this story), the lyrics are relatively simple and straightforward. What's not to love?!


	13. Predicament

Halloween was spent in Greenwich Village, watching the parade march up Sixth Avenue. Positioned on the intersection of Christopher Street along with other costumed spectators, Roger and Stella were dressed as Danny and Sandy from _Grease_, post-Sandy's bad-girl makeover. Over Thanksgiving, Stella's parents whisked her away upstate to visit her grandparents, leaving Roger stranded. The holiday found Mary Jude's brownstone overrun by aunts, uncles and cousins, all of whom were spending the long weekend there. Michael had returned from Georgetown, giving Roger just a bit of his sanity back.

"What the hell was Gran thinking?" Michael griped. "Sixteen people and three bedrooms."

"Don't forget the pullout couch," Roger reminded him. "That's where we're staying."

Michael groaned. "Just keep your hands to yourself."

"_Ew_. Mike, come on. It'll be like old times, sleeping in the big bed like when we lived with Mom."

"If I knew Gran was gonna go nuts like this, I would have stayed in D.C. Thought I was gonna have some peace and quiet, some time to relax and shit. Now I'm sharing the pullout with you and Eddie while Aunt Rosemary and Uncle George have my room."

The brothers were sitting on the stoop in the bitterly cold November air. It was dark, the streetlamps making golden pools on the sidewalk. Dinner had been served hours before, and the various Davises were scattered about the house. The two eldest escaped soon after the coffee and pie was served and their uncles Owen, Trevor and George retired to the living room to watch football. Michael had a bottle of beer, given to him by Uncle Trevor, and they were passing it between them.

"Why do they all have to be here at once?" Michael complained.

"I don't know. I'd rather be anywhere else, that's for damn sure," Roger admitted. "I can't practice with everyone here."

"I meant to ask you about that," Michael said. He took a sip of the beer and passed it to Roger. "The Fender? The amp? Where'd that come from?"

Roger ducked his head and smiled. "Well…um…I'm in a band now."

"No shit?"

"Remember that party you took me to over the summer? At Kevin Burgess's?"

"Yeah."

"That band, Whips and Chains. That's the band I'm in now. Their lead guitarist left and—"

"Wait, that band with the fox as the lead singer?"

"Yeah—her name's Stella. She's…she's my girlfriend now. We got together. And, well, she bought me the Fender. The amp belongs to one of my band mates; he's letting me borrow it."

"She _bought_ you a _Fender_?"

"Yeah. It's a Telecaster, like George Harrison's."

Michael gave a low whistle. "You fuck her yet?"

Roger gagged on the sip of beer he was taking. "What?!"

"She bought you a fucking _Fender_. You must be fucking her."

"I'm not going to share that with you." Roger wiped off the beer that trickled onto his light blue dress shirt.

"Why not? I'm your big brother."

"Well, some things I want to keep private, okay?"

"You fucked her. You totally did. More than once."

Roger didn't answer and took another pull from the beer bottle. Michael punched Roger's arm, causing him to spill yet more beer on his shirt. "Hey!"

"C'mon, Roger. I share stuff with you."

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Roger frowned. "What I do with Stella is none of your fucking business."

"So you _have_ fucked her."

Roger sighed, handed Michael the beer bottle and stood. "Good night, Mikey." He went back inside.

* * *

On New Year's Eve, Declan and Leo hosted a party at their apartment Morningside Heights, complete with champagne and red wine served in plastic martini glasses. They had strung up Christmas lights inside, and Led Zeppelin playing on the tape deck. Roger and Stella, blissfully reunited since Thanksgiving, attended together. Stella was wearing a hot pink silky corset with black lace trim and a black ribbon lace-up front—the streaks in her hair were hot pink to match—along with a black pleated miniskirt over fishnet tights. She was also had a black feather boa draped around her for good measure.

"Aren't you cold?" Roger grinned when he went to go pick her up. He just wore jeans, a button down and a tie. He felt like a nerd.

"Just a little," she replied, bouncing down the steps. "But I don't think it'll be a problem."

There were almost two dozen people crammed into Leo and Declan's apartment, not an easy task. A few people spilled out into the fire escape. The liquor flowed, the music played and everyone mingled. No one seemed to care that Roger and Stella were only sixteen. Several of them even recognized them as being part of the band, complimenting them on the show at CBGB's.

After their CBGB's show, Whips and Chains achieved a cult following. Their popularity was gaining, and it was an exciting experience to see each and every show inundated with fans. One gig led to another and another. They played gigs every Friday and Saturday, and some during the week. Roger and Stella routinely ended up having to lie about where they were going on a school night (or, worst case scenario, sneak out).

Roger couldn't help but notice that Stella acted just a little bit off. She socialized and laughed and mingled with the other partygoers. She danced on the couch with Toshya and a few other scantily-clad girls as Leo blasted "I Love Rock and Roll". She tossed her boa around Roger's neck and openly made out with him. But she refused any food or drink offered her way. She wouldn't even take a sip of Roger's champagne. She didn't talk much, and when Whips and Chains gave an impromptu performance, she forgot the lyrics to "Stairway to Heaven."

At eleven o'clock, Roger pulled Stella into the bathroom. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Fine," she mumbled. "Perfectly fine."

"You are not," Roger insisted. "Was it something I did? Something I said?"

"No!"

"Something happen while you were away?"

Stella sighed and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She buried her face in her hands and took several deep breaths before she started to sob. Roger sat beside her and rubbed her back in a comforting manner, the only way he could think of to comfort her. He let her cry for a minute or so before she reached over him to grab a length of toilet paper to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. By then, she'd calmed down enough to speak.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered.

Roger pulled away from her as if she were on fire. "What?"

She sniffed, "See, this is why I didn't want to tell you."

"How do you—I mean, we've been careful. We used condoms."

"Well, something must have gone wrong or maybe one didn't work or maybe there was a hole, or _something_. I don't _know_. But I've missed my last period. And my breasts are sore."

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"It's one of the symptoms, okay?" she snapped.

"Okay, okay. But you don't know for sure. Did you take a test?"

"No. But I'm usually regular. For me to skip…that's huge." She stared down at the crumpled toilet paper in her hand.

"I can't believe you're telling me this."

"You think I _wanted_ to tell you like this?!" she retorted. "Christ. On all the fucking nights."

A violent knock came on the bathroom door. "Hey, come on!" whined an impatient voice. "Some people gotta get in there!"

"Shit," Stella muttered. She brushed her bangs out of her face and went to the mirror over the sink, doing a quick makeup check. "Shit. My eyes are all red. _Shit_."

"You look fine," Roger insisted, his voice suddenly caught in his throat.

The knock came again and Stella whirled around and shouted: "Can't you give me one FUCKING moment of peace?! I'll be out in a fucking second!"

Roger blinked. "Whoa."

"Fucking assholes," Stella sniffed again. She took Roger by the hand and pulled him up. She yanked open the bathroom door, coming face-to-face with the offender who's dared to knock, a scrawny redheaded boy wearing a spiked necklace. "Are you fucking happy now, you wanker? It's all yours—have fun jerking off while thinking about your mom!" She shoved passed him, dragging Roger with her, leaving the door-knocker with his jaw hanging open.

"Stella, calm down," Roger begged. "Don't make a scene."

"That's why we're going up to the roof," Stella replied, dragging him out of the apartment.

They reached the roof, and it was bitterly cold out. Neither wore a jacket. Stella visibly shivered in her corset and miniskirt. The noise coming from the streets below were nearly deafening—music, shouting, firecrackers, cheering. Declan and Leo's apartment building was only a few blocks away from Broadway, and there was overspill from Times Square, tourists coming in to watch the infamous ball drop.

"This is fucking crazy," Roger said indirectly, but whether he was commenting about the cold, Stella's news, or the situation in general, he wasn't sure.

"Look," Stella replied, hugging herself, "I'm pregnant. I know I am. And I'm not keeping it."

"What do you mean?" Roger asked. Their breaths came from their mouths like puffs of smoke.

"I want an abortion," she replied simply. "We're sixteen years old, Roger—we have to be fucking crazy to think that we can have a kid. It's the best way."

"It's not the only way," Roger argued, surprising himself.

"What else is there?" she said hotly. "You think I want to wander around my high school pregnant?"

"You don't have to do anything because you think it's what I want."

She glared at him, "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…I'm saying that I'll marry you, Stella, if that's what you want."

Another moment's hard stare gave way to a forceful shove. "You _asshole_!"

He teetered and flailed his arms in order to regain his balance. "Whoa, hey! What was that for?!"

"What're you trying to do, get me to change my mind?!" Her eyes were welling up with tears again.

"What? No!"

"Then what, huh? You're proposing marriage, Roger! We are sixteen _fucking_ years old; I don't know what the _hell_ I'm doing, and frankly, neither do _you_! How else do you expect this to work out?!"

In the streets below, a great cheer went up. It was one minute to the New Year.

"Look, why don't we just…go down to the clinic and see if you really are pregnant. Then we can decide what to do."

Stella's face crumbled. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I just…want confirmation. Before we act crazy or do anything drastic. I'll even go with you."

"Gee, thanks."

"Come on, Stella," he moved towards her and cupped her face in his hands. "I'm with you on this, okay?"

She nodded as another tear rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as the clock struck midnight.


	14. Pregnant

Three weeks later, on a Monday, Roger and Stella were at the Planned Parenthood on Bleecker Street. They'd held their breaths and hoped that Stella's skipped period was a fluke and they were safe, but when she missed the next month, they knew they might be in trouble. They'd each cut their last classes from their respective schools so their peers wouldn't see them heading off in that direction. Roger still wore most of his Immaculate Soul uniform, though he'd abandoned the blazer in favor of his leather jacket, and the tie was rolled up and shoved into his pocket. The navy blue slacks and white Oxford shirt remained.

They sat in the waiting room. Each wore sunglasses—Roger in his oversized aviator shades; Stella's were John Lennon-style, tinted blue. Roger had a nervous leg and kept tapping his foot until Stella whacked him in the knee with the magazine she'd been reading.

"Hey!" Roger jerked his leg away.

"Stop. You're making me nervous," Stella replied. Her lips were painted a screaming, scarlet red, like a 1940s icon. She wore a white baby tee with Andy Warhol's four multicolored Marilyn Monroes on the front underneath her fleece-lined denim jacket.

"_You're_ nervous?" Roger lowered his sunglasses and looked at her.

"Damn right I'm nervous. I'm the one who's—"

"Stella Feldman," called out an attendant. She wore a peach nurses' smock and carried a clipboard.

Stella stood, putting her sunglasses on top of her head. Roger scrambled to stand after her. "Yeah?"

"Follow me."

Stella shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and meandered after her. Roger ducked his head down and followed, like a puppy after its owner. The attendant led them into an examination room and handed Stella a plastic cup and a pregnancy test. "The bathroom's down the hall," she said casually. "Fill the cup and place it on the counter by the nurses' station." She then handed Stella a hospital-like paper gown. "When you come back, change into this." Stella just nodded at the instructions while Roger sat in the corner and pretended he wasn't there.

When the attendant left, Stella sighed. "I guess I should get going, then," she said. "Good thing I had that coffee earlier…"

"Yeah," Roger mumbled.

She left the exam room, leaving Roger alone. He was never good at keeping still, so he fidgeted. He glanced around the room—glossy posters depicting reproductive systems, the stages of pregnancy. Roger stared at the ceiling and sang to himself, his arms folded behind his head. His aviator shades were tucked away into the pocket of his leather jacket.

A few minutes later, Stella returned empty-handed. Roger watched her enter the room and close the door. She saw him looking and snapped, "Quit staring at me."

"I'm not staring," Roger insisted.

"You were, like I was a piece of meat. Stop staring at me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not yours to stare at. Now cover your eyes or something so I can get changed."

"Stop being so sensitive," Roger blurted before he could stop himself. He pulled his leather jacket over his face, obeying her wishes that he not look.

"I'm not sensitive," Stella's voice took an icy edge. He heard her rustling around, getting changed. "I just don't want to be stared at."

Roger scoffed behind his leather jacket.

"Okay, you can look now," Stella announced. She sat on the patient's table, her legs tucked under her, wearing the paper gown. Roger took off his leather jacket and draped it on the back of the chair he was sitting on.

Stella chewed a piece of gum while they waited for her test results. She claimed it kept her from being nauseous. Roger silently admitted that she did look pale.

"Say something," Stella begged after a full five minutes of silence.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. What are you thinking about?"

Roger winced. "You don't want to know."

"Say the first thing that pops into your head, then."

He paused. "I want Chinese food."

Stella rolled her eyes. The door opened and the doctor stepped in. He was a younger man, younger than Roger thought he would be, with a mop of dark curly hair and glasses. "Stella Feldman?"

Stella looked up. "That's me."

"Congratulations. You're pregnant."

Roger felt lightheaded and as if he might keel over. Stella just pressed her lips together and stared at her socked feet.

"Okay," the doctor said slowly, "I can put two and two together. I take it this wasn't a planned pregnancy."

"Got that right," Stella replied grimly.

"Would you like to discuss your options?"

"There's no option," Stella said quickly. "I want an abortion."

The doctor blinked. Roger suddenly needed some fresh air.

"Well, why don't we do a pelvic exam," the doctor said calmly, "to see how far along you are. Then we'll proceed from there. Sound good?"

"I guess," Stella replied.

"Lie back, please."

* * *

Stella was nine weeks pregnant. The doctor calculated the date of conception to be sometime before Thanksgiving. Roger had a hard time fighting the nausea that swirled in his stomach like a hurricane. The doctor approved Stella's decision to terminate (this word gave Roger a jolt) and helped her set up an appointment.

Thursday, at four o'clock.

Stella flicked the appointment card between her thumb and forefinger, thanked the doctor and the attendants, and slipped the card into her back pocket. She stalked out and Roger followed.

"Let's get some Chinese food," she said once they were on the street. They headed up Bleecker towards the Bowery, which led them into Chinatown. Roger tried to hold her hand, but she kept pulling away.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I just don't want to be touched right now," she replied. "I feel violated."

"It was just an exam."

Stella glared at him. "You don't understand. You don't know what it's like. You never will."

The tone of her voice was hostile. "I'm not so hungry anymore," he said.

"Well, I am. So you can watch me eat."

Roger didn't think an impending abortion would affect their relationship, but it did. It was the heavy stone tied to both their necks, and they were drowning.

They sat in Great N.Y. Noodletown at a small table, their chairs so close together their knees were almost touching. As always, the tiny little Chinese restaurant was hot, noisy and crowded. They placed their orders. Roger felt as if his stomach couldn't handle food, but Stella managed to persuade him.

"You look green around the gills," she said.

The tension was thick between them until Roger finally broke the ice. "Are you going to tell the band?"

"No," she said. "And you better not, either."

"I won't."

"Seriously, Roger. I'll never hear the end of it."

"I won't," he repeated. A pause. "Did you want me to go with you? On Thursday, I mean. Because I will. If you want."

Stella was silent. "Maybe. I'll call you. I do want one thing, though."

"Anything."

"Money. I want you to help pay for this. At least for half."

"You got it," Roger answered without thinking about where the hell he was going to get that kind of money.

"I figure it's the least you could do."

"Exactly."

"It's either that or hospital bills and child support."

"Stella. I get it. I'll pay. It's not a big deal, okay?"

Stella took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay…Okay."

"Are you scared?"

"…Not really."

Roger had a feeling she was lying through her teeth, but didn't mention it. "Well, if you want to change your mind—"

"Roger. Don't start. Please?"

"Oh…right."

"Look, I know you're not completely happy about this, but it's what's best. For both of us. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

A/N: Great N.Y. Noodletown is a real place on the Bowery. I love it! Talk about some hardcore amazing Chinese food! Huge portions—very little price! Seriously. Ten bucks gets you an incredible amount of food. 


	15. Payment

After Roger dropped Stella off at her place, he walked back to his grandmother's brownstone with a strange buzzing sound in his ears, like he'd been standing too close to amplifiers. Words were ringing in his head, echoing over and over…_I'm pregnant…I want an abortion…discuss your options…I'm pregnant…pregnantpregnantpregnant…_

As he walked, he thought about a conversation the two of them had had only weeks ago. They'd just had sex, and were listening to music on the radio in Stella's room. They were sharing a cigarette.

"Oooh, I love this song," she sighed, turning the volume knob up just a little, the cigarette between her first two fingers. Her nails were painted a dark purple—"Aubergine," she insisted—and she had insisted on painting Roger's nails black. The song was "Freefalling" by Tom Petty. She passed the cigarette to Roger. "Hey, I have a question. Do you feel obligated to like the Who because you're named after Roger Daltrey?"

"Do you feel obligated to like Tennessee Williams?" he raised an eyebrow at her as if to say, _was that a serious question?_ He took a drag on the cigarette.

She laughed, "Good point." She flopped back onto the bed and kissed Roger's naked chest. "You know, Paul McCartney's daughter's name is Stella, too."

"I didn't know that."

"I think we should give our kids music names, like you've got."

"Yeah?" Roger smiled. He sat up and placed the cigarette in the ashtray on Stella's nightstand, one she kept hidden under her bed when it wasn't in use.

"Yeah! That'd be so cool. I mean, and because we're in a band, too. It'll make it a little more special." She got up and positioned herself so that she was in front of him, sitting on her heels.

"What did you have in mind?"

"For a girl, it's _got_ to be Janis—Janis Joan Stevie Feldman Davis, for all my favorite ladies of rock and roll. And for a boy, Roger Junior."

"Roger Junior? No!" Roger protested. "No way!"

"Why not?" Stella pouted.

He pushed her bangs out of her face, "Because I never really liked my name. You know I got called Jolly Roger all through elementary school."

"Fine. Elvis Lennon Paul George Ringo Elton Ramone Garcia Feldman Davis it is, then."

"Sounds good. But you forgot Eric, Eric Clapton."

Stella threw a pillow at his head. He then tackled her and tickled her ribs until tears ran down her face and she screamed in surrender.

That had seemed so long ago. All in good fun, they'd joked about naming their kids—and now it was a possible reality. Except for the fact Stella was adamant about not wanting to have the baby at all. Roger couldn't help but agree with her decision. He couldn't tell her what to do, that was for sure, but for some reason, when Stella told him that she was pregnant, for half a second, he was thrilled. And when she added she wanted an abortion, he felt like she'd thrown a rock at his head.

_What the hell, man?_ he thought to himself. _What the hell are the two of you going to do with a baby? You're sixteen years old!_

When he got home, he slammed the front door. Mary Jude, who had been in the den, came to stand in the doorway.

"Roger!" she scolded. "Jesus Christ Almighty, you scared me with that door! I thought I told you to _not_ do that! Several times!"

Roger just sighed and stared right through her. He headed towards the staircase.

"Roger? Roger Jay Davis! I am speaking to you, young man!" Mary Jude followed him until the foot of the stairs. "Roger! Are you listening?!"

He got to his bedroom and slammed that door, too.

* * *

Stella's procedure (as he thought of it now) would cost six hundred dollars. He wanted to pay for as much as he could, but with no job, he wasn't quite sure how he would. Obviously he would have to sell something. 

The next day, Roger put his mother's guitar in its case after he cleaned it one last time. It was the most valuable thing he owned. It had to be worth _something_.

He faked a sore throat to get out of going to school and shrugged on his leather jacket once Mary Jude was out of the house for the day. In his pocket was the address of a pawnshop in the East Village that he'd gotten from the phonebook. In his hand was the Martin in its case.

He walked, he took the subway, he walked some more. He didn't make eye contact with anyone. He was on his way to do business, and nothing more.

The pawnshop, called the Lucky Break, was larger than Roger expected it to be. When he opened the door, a little bell sounded. Behind glass doors, on shelves, were every kind of imaginable merchandise, from television sets to bicycles to musical instruments. There was one wall covered in guitars, both acoustic and electric. Roger felt a flutter in his chest as he gazed at this one wall. It reminded him of old movies in which men displayed their hunting prizes by mounting their heads on the wall.

"Can I help you?" A disembodied voice sounded and it made Roger jump. He turned to see, at the front counter, a heavyset, middle-aged white man with thick glasses and too-long sideburns.

"I, uhm, I need to—" Roger's voice came out as something between a squeak and a whisper.

"Speak up, can't hear you," the man said sharply.

Roger approached the counter and saw that it was actually a case, wide and long, filled with jewelry of all sorts: watches, rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings, pendants, gold, silver, gemstones. "I wanted to, uhm, pawn this."

"Pawn what, kid?"

"Oh." Roger gingerly placed the guitar case onto the counter and opened the metal clasps. He pushed the case towards the pawnbroker, who raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"A Martin?" he asked.

Roger nodded. "It was my mom's."

"I don't want your story, kid, I just want the merch," the broker said lackadaisically as he lifted the guitar out of its case. Roger clenched his jaw as he watched the broker pick at the steel strings, run his hands over the wood. "Do you know the model number?"

"Triple-oh one," Roger recited.

The broker nodded as he inspected it. "It's definitely fine quality. This thing's gotta be what, at least thirty years old?"

"I think so."

The broker put the guitar on the table. "Three hundred."

Roger tried not to wince. "That's it?"

"That's all I can give you."

"How about five? Or four?" _Please, give me five._

"This ain't a flea market, son," the broker said impatiently. "Either take the three hundred cash or take your ass outta here."

Roger bit his tongue to prevent him from saying anything remotely nasty. "I'll take the three."

The pawnbroker didn't even blink. He went into his register, counted out a wad out twenties and placed them on the counter in front of Roger. "You want an envelope for that?" he asked.

Roger shook his head. "No, I'm good." He folded the bills and stuffed them into his back pocket. "Thank you."

* * *

There was a band practice that night. It was the last place that Roger wanted to be, but he knew if he didn't show, Declan would demand that his head be brought to him on a silver platter. With the three hundred in his pocket and the Telecaster on his shoulder, he called Stella to let her know he was on his way to pick her up. 

"I'll meet you there," she said. "Don't come over."

Roger was confused, but obeyed, and went straight to Charlie's in SoHo.

She didn't meet him there. She wasn't even on time. She ran about half an hour late. They all waited. Leo called her twice, but no one at the apartment answered.

"She did say she was coming, right?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah," Roger replied.

"Well, if she doesn't show up by eight, we might as well split," Declan said. "No sense in having band practice without the lead singer."

Stella arrived then, looking a mess. Her hair, newly dyed with purple streaks, was disheveled. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and there were bags under her eyes. Her usually chic punk style of dress was not present; instead she wore black track pants and a yellow tee, with hot pink Converse sneakers.

"What are you fuckers staring at?" she snapped when no one said anything.

"You look like you just rolled out of bed," offered Leo, ever-helpful.

"I did, for all intensive purposes," Stella replied, her hands on her hips. "Don't we have a gig to rehearse for?"

"Yeah," Declan piped up, "at Spike's Café. It's on Friday."

"Let's get started, then," Roger said, taking the Telecaster out of its case.

"Charlie, start the riff on that new one that Roger wrote," Declan instructed, slipping his Les Paul on. "Stella, you got the lyrics down on that?"

Stella nodded. "Think so."

"Okay, pick it up, then."

Another rehearsal had begun.

* * *

Roger palmed Stella the money as he walked her home. "It was all I could get," he said apologetically. "I pawned the Martin." 

Stella stared at him. "The Martin? Your mom's guitar?"

"It was the only thing I had that was worth anything. I don't have anything else, really."

She wordlessly slipped the money into the pocket of her track pants. "Thank you." She hurried up the steps of her brownstone.

"Call me," Roger called after here. "You know…about Thursday."

"I will," she said. She slipped inside.


	16. Pain

Thursday was torture.

Roger couldn't for the life of him pay attention in any of his classes. He flunked a history quiz—names and dates sifted through his head like sand. He nearly got hit in the face with a basketball in gym class and misspelled his name twice in English.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. Before lunch, he quietly slipped out, cutting a majority of his classes. He'd deal with it later.

He couldn't go home. Mary Jude would bawl him out. He went first to Morningside Heights to see if Declan or Leo was home, but no such luck. He sat outside their apartment in the hallway for about an hour, until a suspicious neighbor popped out to tell him that if he didn't leave in the next ten minutes, she was going to call the NYPD. Not really willing to take that chance, he bolted.

His only other option was SoHo, but he wasn't completely sure if Charlie would be as hospitable, since he had a live-in girlfriend. However, he was in need of a hiding place and Charlie's loft was as good as any.

Thankfully, Charlie answered Roger's frantic knocking, bleary-eyed and wearing a wife-beater and boxer shorts, leaving less to the imagination than Roger would have liked. "What's up?" he yawned. It was noon, but he looked like he'd just woken up. His Mohawk was his natural hair color, a light brown.

"I need a place to crash," Roger admitted. "Just for a few hours."

"Shouldn't you be in school?" Charlie raised an eyebrow.

"I cut. Come on, Charlie, please?"

Charlie just shook his head, "All right, all right. Get inside. Want some coffee?"

"No, thanks. Where's Toshya?"

"At St. Vincent's. Just us guys right now." Charlie lumbered over to the kitchen counter to where there was a coffee pot. He yawned again and poured himself a mug, drinking it black. Roger slumped onto the overstuffed purple couch.

"Well, I should have woken up anyway," Charlie said, his back to Roger. "I've got work in about an hour and a half." Charlie worked the front desk at a recording studio. "So, I'll have to kick you out when I leave."

"That's okay," Roger replied.

"You look like death warmed over."

"Thanks?"

Charlie came over and put a pudgy hand on Roger's shoulder in a brotherly manner. "Something going on, guy? You need to talk?"

Roger bit his tongue. Charlie, being the oldest member of the band, was the father figure that Roger never had. He was tempted to spill the whole story, about Stella and the abortion. But he promised Stella that he wouldn't tell. Plus, it was always so hard to take a guy in a Mohawk seriously. "I just need some time…away."

Charlie raised an eyebrow and spoke skeptically. "I hear that. Well, feel free to turn on the stereo, the TV, whatever. I gotta take a leak."

Roger nodded. Charlie trudged in the direction of the bathroom and closed the door. Once he heard the shower running, Roger kicked off his Chucks and lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He passed the time studying the inside of his eyelids. When he slept, he didn't have to deal with reality.

* * *

Roger was home by two, when he was usually due home after school. The brownstone was quiet. He guessed his grandmother was out running errands. He sat in the living room, biting his nails and waited for Stella to call. After a few minutes, he went and retrieved the Fender, placing it in his lap, picking at the strings. Mary Jude hadn't asked about the Martin ever since Roger had taken up with the Fender. Hopefully, she'd forget and Roger wouldn't have to tell her that he'd hocked it. 

At three, he put the Fender away and went up to his room to listen to the new AC/DC album, _Blow Up Your Video_, which he'd borrowed from Declan.

At four, Roger began to panic. Did this mean that Stella didn't want him to be with her during the procedure? At ten after, he picked up the phone and called Stella's apartment. Her mother answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Mrs. Feldman? This is Roger…Roger Davis? Uhm…is-is Stella there?"

Mrs. Feldman paused. "No. She said she was going to band practice. Don't you guys usually practice around this time?"

Roger's stomach sank. "I…yeah…sorry. I must've forgot. Sorry to bother you." He hung up.

So. Stella didn't want him there. He couldn't help but feel hurt and betrayed. He offered so that she wouldn't have to be alone. But maybe she wanted to be alone. But what did that say about their relationship? Didn't she love him anymore? Did this mean they were over?

His head was swimming with anger. He felt destructive. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to hurt, to bleed. Instead, he went to the living room and jimmied open his grandmother's liquor cabinet. To the naked eye, it looked like a simple decorative piece of furniture, with a vase propped on top for good measure. It was filled with bulging yellow chrysanthemums. Roger and Michael had discovered that this wasn't any ordinary breakfront when they watched their uncle Trevor unlock it about five years ago to retrieve a bottle of vodka.

Roger reached inside, extracted a bottle of Jack Daniels and took a long pull. The whiskey burned his throat and he nearly gagged, but he kept swallowing. When he'd had enough, he capped the bottle and shoved it way into the back of the liquor cabinet. He caught a sharp buzz almost immediately and had trouble standing straight. He stumbled up to his bedroom, lay face-down on his bed and passed out.

Roger didn't move from his bed until hours later when his grandmother roused him.

"I didn't do it," Roger said upon awakening. His mouth was dry and he had a sharp pain between his eyes.

"Roger, you have a phone call," Mary Jude said.

"Take a message. I'll call 'em back."

"It's Stella's mother."

Roger sat up straight. The head rush caused him to see little floaters in front of his eyes but he ignored them. "What?"

"Do you still want me to tell her—?"

"No!" Roger said quickly. "I'll…I'll take the call."

He followed his grandmother downstairs and went into the kitchen, where the phone was waiting for him, on the counter. Mary Jude departed to the living room, giving Roger his privacy. He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Roger, hello," Mrs. Feldman said. Her voice was soft. "I thought you'd be home around this time, I hope it's not too late."

"No, not at all," Roger replied. He glanced at the clock. It was passed nine. Had he really slept that long? "What's…what's going on?"

"Well…was Stella at your band practice?"

He lied quickly. "Yeah…yeah, she was. I saw her."

"And…you walked her home, right?"

"Uh, no," he said. "I had to go somewhere…else. I had to run an errand. For my grandmother."

"Roger."

Something in Mrs. Feldman's voice gave Roger a lurch. "I…there was no band practice tonight, Mrs. Feldman," Roger sighed. "I'm sorry. I should've come clean. Why did you need to know?"

"Because…because Stella never came home," she said. "She came home from school around two fifteen, as always, but she left about an hour later, said she was going to band practice. She never came back." A wave of nausea crashed down on Roger, from a combination of the whiskey and Mrs. Feldman's revelation. "Why would she lie about that?"

"I…don't know," Roger replied. "I'm sorry. I don't. I haven't seen her, or spoken to her at all today."

Mrs. Feldman gave a shuddery sigh, as if she was trying not to cry. "Well…if you hear from her…please, let her know I'm worried about her?"

Roger paused. "Yeah. I will. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Roger."

Roger hung up the phone, staggered into the bathroom and vomited. He felt like he was in a nightmare.


	17. Pity

_Memory: seventeen years old _

_1988_

Stella had been missing for two weeks; Roger felt as if he was slipping into some sort of hell.

The police, after extensive questioning and going over Stella's room with a fine-toothed comb, deemed her a runaway youth. They'd found evidence that she'd withdrawn everything from her bank account, and closed it. The Feldmans confirmed that certain items of jewelry and clothes were missing, including her hairbrush, toothbrush, and suitcase. She left no clues as to where she could have gone.

For Roger, it was agony. He didn't know what to do with himself. A thousand thoughts wreaked havoc throughout his mind: about Stella, about where she might have gone, about the money had had given her. Being her boyfriend, the police grilled him the hardest. However, he knew nothing and said nothing, especially about the pregnancy and the abortion. They never asked; he never provided.

The band was in turmoil as well. Ever since Stella left, they'd taken a hiatus. They'd lost both their lead singer and their sex appeal. They had to cancel four gigs. Roger didn't feel much like playing music anyway. He was nearly catatonic with depression. Nothing seemed important anymore. Not music, not the band, not school.

He found solace in alcohol. He slipped vodka into his orange juice in the morning, keeping it in a thermos and taking it out with him, which kept him slightly buzzed all day. When he came home, Jack Daniels was his best friend.

Everything suffered because of this, but frankly, Roger didn't care. He felt like he was trapped in some sort of worm hole, a vortex, stuck in a foggy maze.

Mary Jude definitely noticed Roger backsliding. She was getting calls from Immaculate Soul again: getting into fights; failing science and history; being disrespectful to his peers and teachers.

When he was suspended in March for a particularly ruthless locker room brawl, Mary Jude's last resort was to send Roger to a priest, almost like a therapy session. She felt that all her grandson needed was a good dose of religion to set him on the right track once more. For a week straight, Roger sat in the fusty rectory of Father Sheehan, which reeked of cigar smoke, candle wax and incense, listening to the old priest ramble on about God, about how Roger's violent behavior was hurting Jesus. Roger didn't react or respond to anything Father Sheehan said, just sat with his arms crossed and his shoulders slumped, watching the clock until his hour was up and Mary Jude would come for him.

Finally, after another week of listening to Father Sheehan's ramblings, Roger stood right in the middle of his spiel; announced, "God is dead"; and stalked out.

He didn't return to Father Sheehan's.

* * *

In April, Declan called a band meeting. "We have to decide on our future," he said. 

Roger went to Morningside Heights in a drunken daze. He hadn't touched his Fender in weeks.

"Guys," Declan said seriously once they were all assembled. "I think we all realize that Stella isn't coming back." Roger's stomach swirled.

"What does this mean for us?" Leo asked.

"Either get a new singer or split."

"_Split_?!" Leo exclaimed. "What?! After all this time?"

"Well, maybe this is a sign," Charlie said, "that we should move on. Some of us are getting too old to be in a band anyway."

"You're never to old to rock," Leo responded.

"I am," Charlie admitted. "Look, I was holding off on telling you guys this, but my cousin Casey started up a recording studio in LA. He asked me if I'd be interested in helping him run it."

Leo's face fell. "You're going to LA?"

"In June," Charlie confirmed, "after Toshya finishes her semester at Columbia. She's coming with me; finishing medical school out there. She's already applied for a transfer."

"Leo," Declan said, putting a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Come on, man. It's time to let go."

"Why can't Roger sing?" Leo asked quickly.

Roger, who's been silent the entire time, looked up sharply. "What?"

"Roger, you can sing, we know you can."

Roger shook his head. "No. I can't. I won't." He felt a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew he was destroying the band by doing this, but to continue on without Stella just seemed so wrong to him—especially if he was to replace her as the front.

"Not even to save the band?"

"I can't take Stella's place."

Leo bit his lower lip, obviously devastated. "So…this is the end, I guess."

Declan shrugged. "It is what it is. I'm graduating in May, you know. I'm getting a full time job. I won't have time for this."

After a long pause, Leo sighed. "I can't believe you're just going to give it up."

"Leo…it's just time, man."

And just like that, Whips and Chains was done with.

* * *

Eventually, Roger stopped going to school. He never made an official announcement, never formally declared himself a dropout, but he did exactly that—he dropped out, disappeared, evaporated. He woke up one morning, dressed in his Immaculate Soul uniform, ate breakfast with his grandmother and Eddie, shrugged on his backpack, and started off in the direction towards school—but at the end of the block, he walked in the opposite direction. 

He found it exhilarating. He'd cut school many times before, but for some reason, this time it felt different. He felt lighter. He felt...slightly happier. In fact, he liked the feeling so much that he did it the next day and the next, and the next, until he had gone a week without going to school.

Mary Jude was almost none the wiser. Roger knew it was only a matter of time before the calls from the school would start up, wondering why Roger wasn't in any of his classes, but for the time being, he didn't care.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, this really is just a filler. The next chapter will be better, promise! 


	18. Philosophy

Roger had taken to sneaking out at night. Once his grandmother and brother went to sleep, he would wait for a few hours before grabbing his leather jacket and slipping out either the front door or the kitchen window, whatever he thought was safer.

He knew his grandmother would have a raging fit if she knew he was out ad about, wandering New York City at one, two, three o'clock in the morning, wandering around where drug dealers and prostitutes lurk.

Luckily, the subways ran all night, and they took him all over the city. He went to the Bowery to CBGB's, sometimes to see who was playing. Now that he was seventeen, he could get in on his own, without the band. He wandered St. Mark's Place and Washington Square. He steered clear of Central Park, scared shitless from rumors and news stories of the rapes and murders that happened there in the clock of darkness. Still being so young, he couldn't go into bars or clubs, but had just as much fun people-watching.

One particular night, close to the end of April, as Roger wandered, hugging his leather jacket around his body, Roger found himself not far from where he and his brothers used to live with their mother, on Avenue B—the music-publishing factory. Even after eleven years, Roger felt his chest tighten when he saw it, staring up at the building. He still vividly recalled the night they left, that heavy weight of sadness he felt in the pit of his stomach.

Roger pulled open the heavy front door of the building. The light on the first floor had gone out. The entranceway was dark and only from the light pouring in through the windows was Roger able to see where he was going. He put his hand against the iron-wrought handrail and ran his fingers against it. He began to climb the stairs.

They'd lived on the top floor. Roger never discovered how his mother found the loft, nor how long she had lived there before he and his brothers were born, or if she had even had any roommates. All he remembered were the smells of patchouli and marijuana that seemed to permeate everything; the music of the Who, the Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Janis Joplin coming from the record player; the way his mother used to dance barefoot.

He approached the top floor. The sliding door of the loft was slightly open. It was dark. Biting his lower lip, he eased himself inside. This was breaking and entering, and he knew it. But it's not like he kicked down the door. He didn't care.

Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the loft had changed from what he remembered. His heart sank. There were other people living here now; it was no longer his loft.

There was new furniture—well, "new" in the sense that it was unfamiliar. The brown sofa from Roger's childhood was gone, replaced with a red velvet number, with tears in the upholstery that Roger could see even in the dark. Bookshelves crammed with books lined one wall. In the kitchen area was a long, narrow steel table, like what was seen in professional kitchens. He took a deep breath and smirked. Well, it was nice to know that the smell of pot had subsisted these passed eleven years.

As he stepped across the hard wooden floor, he didn't see the wire that connected a lamp to the wall plug. He tripped on it, sending him—and the lamp—flying. The lamp plummeted to the floor with a terrific crash. He landed headlong in front of the couch.

"Who's there?!" called a voice: deep, gruff, frightening.

Roger remained silent, trying to steady his breathing. _I'm gonna die…I'm going to jail…I'm gonna get shot…_

"Someone out there?!" Footsteps now. A light flicked on. Roger saw the man's shadow spill across the floor. He tried to stay still as the figure moved. He closed his eyes and hoped that the end would come quickly. Red spider webs were etched behind his eyelids. He breathed as softly as he could. More footsteps, then a shadow cast over him. The man was standing right in front of him.

"Who're you?" he queried.

Roger just squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"What's matter? Don't you talk? You best start talkin', boy."

Roger opened his eyes slightly, peering through the threads of his eyelashes. The man before him was enormous. He was black, with facial hair and wearing black-framed glasses. A white knitted beanie sat atop his head. He was also holding a baseball bat in his massive hands. Roger inched away from him.

"If you ain't gonna talk, I'm gonna get the cops. They'll make your ass talk, after they book you for breaking and entering. Not to mention destruction of private property."

Roger's mouth went dry, and opened his mouth to speak, saying the first thing that came to mind: "O-our F-father, who art in Heaven…h-hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom c-come, thy will be done…"

The man lowered his baseball bat and sighed, "A'ight, a'ight. Get up, boy. Don't be bringin' God into this. I don't play that game."

Roger fumbled to get up, keeping his head lowered, his gaze diverted.

The man gave a low whistle, "Shit. You really are a boy, ain't you? How old're you? Fifteen? Sixteen?" Roger nodded. "What's your name?"

"Roger."

"Roger," he repeated. "Friends call me Collins—Tom Collins." The man set the bat down, leaning it up against the couch. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna turn you in. You can relax, boy."

"I'm sorry," Roger whispered. "I…just…I used to live here."

"Did you?" Collins knelt and examined the broken lamp. "I've been living here 'bout three years now."

"I haven't lived here since I was five," Roger said. He stooped down beside Collins. "Is it fixable?"

"No. But I got it for two dollars at a sidewalk sale," Collins replied. "No big loss."

Roger nodded.

"How did you get in here anyway?"

"The door was open."

"Was it?" Collins glanced over his shoulder with a frown. "Shit. Son of a bitch. Must've gotten stoned and forgot to lock it."

Roger pursed his lips and tried not to laugh. He helped Collins clean up the broken lamp.

"Where you come from?" Collins asked, tossing aside the lamp pieces.

"Hell's Kitchen. I ran away."

"You sure did. You're almost an hour's run away. What're you running from?"

"Life," Roger replied simply. "I'm…I'm tired of life. I want a new one."

"Oh," Collins answered, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He sat on the couch and reached into the breast pocket of the flannel button-down he wore. He pulled out a joint and lit it using a match. Roger watched as he made the act so casual. Collins inhaled deeply and gestured for Roger to sit in the armchair beside the couch before speaking once more, "So you ran here."

"I quit school," Roger admitted as he sat.

"Aw, now that's a shame," Collins said. The smoke slithered out of his mouth.

"I just want to play music all the time."

"Well, you've certainly come to the right place," Collins passed the joint to Roger. "East Village: full of artists….musicians, actors…"

"I know. My mother lived here. She was a hippie," Roger said fondly. "She played music, too…lived on a commune…went to Woodstock." He took a hit on the joint, his eyes watering as the bitter smoke tickled his throat. He held it for as long as he could as he watched Collins get up and pulled a trash can over to the center of the room, right be the couch. He methodically placed wood and newspaper into it. As Roger exhaled the smoke, Collins was trying to coax a fire out of the trashcan, like a snake charmer and his cobra. Once the fire was burning and giving off heat, Collins sat back down. Roger passed the joint back.

"You sound like you really love her." Collins held the joint between his thumb and forefinger.

"I haven't seen her in a long time. She ran away, too."

"Where'd she go?" he asked him.

"Don't know," Roger replied in a soft voice. "She just left." Roger pulled his legs up and curled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins. Before he knew it, the whole story—about his mother, his grandmother, Immaculate Soul, Sister Cecilia, the band, Stella—came tumbling out. Roger just talked and talked, sharing everything. Collins just listened and nodded as he smoked his joint. When Roger was done, he felt worn out, like a wet towel wrung out too many times. Collins passed him the joint. As Roger puffed, Collins looked at the clock. It was nearly four AM.

"Shit, son," he said with the shake of his head, "it's damn near dawn. Your grandma's gonna worry 'bout you."

Roger looked at Collins. "I don't think she'll care."

Collins shook his head. "The way I see it, if she didn't care, she wouldn't have taken you in."

Roger sighed. "Yeah…I guess you're right." He got up out of the chair and stretched his legs. Collins walked him to the door.

"Look, if you ever want to talk…you know where I live," Collins replied with a broad smile. "Got it?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah."

As Roger walked back home from the music factory, he had a familiar feeling in his chest, a feeling that he hadn't felt for a long time, not since Sister Cecilia had left. It was the feeling of knowing that someone understood.


	19. Perseverence

Eventually, Roger stopped going to school altogether and instead spent his days with Collins in the East Village. Once summer vacation began in mid-June, Mary Jude had slackened the leash she usually kept her grandsons on, and, as soon as he could, Roger would scamper off to visit Collins and stay until the sun set. The older boy always had a steady supply of advice, anecdotes and weed at the ready, dispensing each one with gusto. Roger's time was spent in a happy haze.

Collins was currently putting himself through NYU, working his way up to a PhD, earning hourly wages and credit as an undergrad TA. He had a genius IQ who had earned a full scholarship, Roger learned, and had a deep respect and enthusiasm for philosophy, which was his forte and passion. When Collins was on a particularly good high, once he got rolling on a certain topic, he couldn't be stopped. Roger would sit and listen for hours as Collins rambled on about Plato and ethics; Aristotle and metaphysics. He loved to read. He prescribed books like doctors would prescribe medicine. He gave Roger books upon books to read—some he did, some he didn't—about the many different aspects of philosophy. He favored existentialist authors: Nietzsche and Sartre and Kierkegaard and Heidegger ("Although, Heidegger wasn't _really_ an existentialist," Collins explained when he handed Roger a copy of _Being and Time_, "But he's someone you should know anyway").

Collins once spent nearly an entire day trying to explain to Roger Plato's allegory of the cave. He sat Roger in a chair facing a blank wall and stood in front of him as if giving a lecture, but he bounced all over the loft as he spoke.

"You see," he said excitedly, "we were once in the dark." He turned of all the lights. "In a cave, just…just staring at the wall, you know? Chained in place, our heads forced to look in one direction. And we had the sun!" He turned on a lamp behind Roger. When Roger tried to turn, Collins tapped his shoulder. "Not yet. Face the wall. Okay. So, we're in the dark, our backs towards the sun at the opening of the cave. Aaaand between us and the sun is…a parade!"

"A parade?" Roger raised an eyebrow.

"A parade! People carrying objects and animals and plants and insects, all marching in this parade, right behind us…but all we see are the shadows." Collins stood in front of the lamp, casting his shadow on the wall in front of Roger. He waved. "Hi."

"You totally are."

"Anyway…we start to guess, to assume that we know what these shadows are, right?" Collins held up a glass Coke bottle with a plastic sunflower in it. "Okay…tell me: what is this?"

Roger squinted at the shadow. "I don't know…a dragon?" Collins chuckled. "A…um…a Venus flytrap?"

"Good guesses. Now…turn around."

Roger turned and winced against the bright light of the lamp. Collins had removed the lampshade. Collins handed him the glass Coke bottle. "See what it really is now?"

"Yeah, it's a fake flower in a bottle." Roger's eyes had black spots in front of them from being blinded by the lamplight.

"Okay, so say you came back to the cave after turning around and seeing what this really is. You think I'd believe you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because…because I'm the only one who saw it. And you don't think that what I saw is real."

"Why?"

Roger furrowed his brow. "Because…because all you know are the shadows."

"_Excellent_!" Collins grabbed a nearby book off the table, Plato's _The Republic_. "So, now that you see the world for what it really is, are you going to go back to the shadows?"

"Probably not."

Collins nodded sagely, and began to read aloud: "'Descending back into the cave would require that the freed prisoner's eyes adjust again, and for a time, he would be one of the ones identifying shapes on the wall. His eyes would be swamped by the darkness, and would take time to become acclimated. Therefore, he would not be able to identify the shapes on the wall as well as the other prisoners, making it seem as if his being taken to the surface completely ruined his eyesight'." Collins leaned over and turned off the lamp. Roger's eyes adjusted to the dark once more.

"Whoa," he sighed. "That was heavy."

Collins handed Roger _The Republic_. "This is philosophy one-oh-one, boy. Commit it to memory."

Hanging out with Collins was, for Roger, like being in school and a therapist's office at the same time. He didn't feel pressured to talk, and enjoyed listening to Collins instead. But when Roger did talk, he was amazed at how relaxed and at ease he was getting things off his chest. Collins would listen with patience, nodding sagely. They shared bits of each other's lives. Occasionally, Roger would bring his Telecaster and strum a few tunes. Collins would shout out requests as he graded papers for Dr. Harris's summer semester students.

"So," Roger said one afternoon in July, as he was lying upside down in an armchair. "I've decided not to go back to the shadows."

Collins looked up from the book he was reading—_Demian_ by Hermann Hesse. "What's that?"

"Allegory of the cave," Roger replied, taking a drag on the joint he had been puffing on. It rested in a shell ashtray on the coffee table. "I don't want to go back to the shadows, back to the same thing over and over again."

"Congratulations," Collins said with a nod. He put his book down. "Now that you mention it, I'm taking my own little hiatus from the shadows."

"Really? How?" Roger maneuvered his body so that he was sitting upright.

"Doctor Harris, the professor that I'm a TA for, is spearheading this study abroad program in Greece this summer. Eight weeks in Greece! The birthplace of philosophy, man!"

"That's pretty amazing," Roger said enthusiastically.

"So how are you turning your back to the shadows?" Collins asked. He lifted his glasses up onto his brow.

"I'm quitting school."

"I thought you already did that," Collins said with a small grin.

"Well, for real. I'm going to tell my grandmother and I'm going to leave her house and I'm going to play music all the time. As loud as I want."

"You're going to leave? Where are you going to go from there?"

Roger bit his lower lip. "Well…I was kind of hoping that maybe I could move in here." Collins raised an eyebrow skeptically but Roger rambled on. "I can get a part-time job and help you pay rent and for food and stuff! I just can't stay with my grandmother anymore; she'll kill me if I stay in her place and not go to school!" Collins sighed. "Look, why don't you let me apartment-sit while you're in Greece? And if the place isn't reduced to ashes by the time you get back, I can be your roommate?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Roger."

"Why not?"

"Because…well…" Collins paused.

"You can't think of a good reason," Roger said gleefully. "That means it's a sign. I should be your roommate."

They talked. Eventually, Roger got Collins to agree. He was going to leave for Greece the following week, and he would leave Roger the key to the loft.

When that time came, Roger felt a surge of excitement shoot through his body as Collins pressed the little brass key into his palm. "Take care of it now," he said with a smile. A cigarette hung from his lips. A taxi idled by the sidewalk.

"I will," Roger replied with a prompt nod. "It was mine before it was yours, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah…can't believe I'm trusting my apartment to a seventeen year old. That doesn't mean you can go out and be having parties all the time, boy—"

"_Quod quis custodiet ipsos custodes_. But who will watch the watchman?" Roger smirked.

"—Or I'll force you to drink hemlock."

"Like Socrates."

Collins ruffled Roger's hair, which had begun to grow long again. "I taught you well." He stomped out his cigarette and got into the taxi. "See you in the fall, my good man."

Roger watched the taxi disappear down the avenue. Once it was out of sight, he looked at the key in his hand. It meant a lot to him. It meant _freedom_. He closed his fingers around the key and looked up at the loft. He didn't feel like going inside, not just yet. He put the key into his pocket and walked towards the subway station. Leo had called him earlier in the week.

"I know that you didn't want the band thing to end, Rog," Leo said frankly. "I could tell."

"Look, Leo, I…it's just that I couldn't see myself as the front of a band. I got nervous and I bailed," Roger lied on the spot. He had pulled the phone into a nearby closet in his grandmother's brownstone so that he could talk in private, sitting on the floor amongst coats and boots.

"Well, how do you feel about starting up another band, with me? You and me, we'll find two more members…what do you say? I think we can do it."

Roger hesitated. "I don't know, Leo."

"I've already started interviewing prospective band mates," Leo barreled on. "Please, Roger?"

Another pause. "Okay. Fine. I'll try it out, okay?"

"Really?! Great!" Leo exclaimed, like an excited kid. They set up a meeting time and place, and hung up.

Now, as Roger headed towards Morningside Heights, he wondered if this was a turnaround for him. Collins would take him on as a roommate, he and Leo would start up a new band. Things were going to be okay.

As he walked, a flier swept across the street and fluttered towards him, getting caught beneath his shoe. He picked it up. The paper was neon yellow, and the bold black lettering advertised a gig at CBGB's for a band called Sonic Youth. He turned it over: the back was blank. Roger pressed his lips together. He held onto the flier and made an immediate beeline for Tom's Restaurant. He asked one of the waitresses behind the counter for an envelope and a stamp. The waitress, peeved that Roger was not a paying customer, merely nodded and took her sweet time—nearly twenty minutes before she returned with his request. Roger thanked her profusely and handed her a dollar, which was all the cash he had on him, as a tip. With a pen he'd found in his pocket, on the back of the flier, Roger wrote:

_Dear Gran,  
__I quit school.  
__Love, Roger_

He addressed the envelope to his grandmother's brownstone and added the stamp, folded up the flier and sealed it within. He tossed the impromptu letter into the first mailbox he came across without a second thought. He grinned to himself. He felt as if a weight had been lifted.

Things were going to be okay.

THE END.

* * *

A/N: I'm glad I got a lot of good response from this fic. I was a little nervous at first, but I'm so happy that I just dove into it. Thanks for being patient. 

Again, there are people who need to be thanked:  
-Steph, for being my beta and putting up with my pissy attitude and helping me cure my writer's block  
-Gaz, for just being my little ray of sunshine.

Also, much love to John, Paul, George and Ringo for making all the beautiful music that I listened to ad nausea while writing this story (especially the White Album)!

And one last order of business before I close this story: a lot of you kept asking me about what happened to Stella, well, I did have a plan for her and even wrote a few chapters from her perspective. However, you won't read them here. I'm planning on taking this fic, changing a few names and characterizations (and, of course, removing Collins all together), and turning this into an original work. There, perspectives will switch between the two young lovers. I'll let you guys know when that will be hitting fictionpress.

THANK YOU TO THE READERS AS WELL! I LOVE YOU ALL!


End file.
